


So We Are History

by catholicschoolgirl



Series: Tears Dry On Their Own Universe [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, BDSM, Barebacking, Choking, Consensual Violence, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graduate Student!Zayn, Infidelity, M/M, Power Imbalance, Recreational Drug Use, Undergraduate!Harry, Zayn being a hot mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/pseuds/catholicschoolgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just a bit of fooling around with one of his students.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write some TA!Zayn fucking undergraduate!Harry PWP. This self-indulgent, angsty bullshit came out instead. 
> 
> Dedicated to Frida, because she's amazing and basically everything I write is for her.
> 
> Title from Amy Winehouse's song, “Tears Dry On Their Own,” which is basically this fic in a nutshell.

“Zayn, are you cheating on me?”

It wasn't an unfair question. They did have a history. Zayn liked to refer to the first few years of their relationship as “a period of great immaturity,” whereas Perrie called it “a demonstration of Zayn's inability to keep it in his pants.” Which ok, that was a valid assertion. There was that time he was on a boys-only vacation, most of his undergraduate years, and the handful of flings after Zayn learned how to be more careful about hiding his indiscretions. And all right, listing all of this made him sound more like an episode of Maury than a man trying to have a serious commitment to his girlfriend but hell, he'd been trying, and he'd been faithful for over a year, and had even proposed, although Perrie turned him down (“It's not a 'no' but . . . just let me think about it, ok, love?”). Until now. When he was definitely cheating, definitely emotionally invested, definitely undeniably caught, and definitely going to deny it all anyway.

 

It all started in August. A new semester came with a new sense of growing dread. It was normal – Zayn was used to it now. Every few months he questioned why in the hell he was trying to get this god forsaken degree, and every few months he remembered that it was because he loved academia. Even if most of the time it crushed his very soul and made him feel like an absolute idiot in a sea of geniuses, it made Zayn feel alive, constantly on the precipice of brilliance, and that was enough to put up with the bullshit, honestly.

“Babe, just stop and breathe.” Zayn looked up at his longtime girlfriend as she sat down at the cramped kitchen table beside him, a bowl of cereal clutched between her hands. Perrie was a thin blonde, eyes smoked with a thick ring of kohl-black eyeliner, delicate strands of hair pulled back into a slightly messy bun, and she was wearing her favorite gray pencil skirt and a crisp white button-down top. She looked ravishing, and if Zayn was not busy having his monthly existential crisis, he would probably ask her for a quickie before work.

“I'm trying,” Zayn responded, taking his fork and swirling his eggs around the perimeter of his plate. “I'm just – ”

“Nervous?” Perrie supplied, taking a large bite of Frosted Flakes. “Don't be. You're great. Your students will love you, you already know Professor Cowell thinks the world of you – just relax and be yourself. You said Louis will be a GSI for this class as well?” Zayn nodded and Perrie smiled before leaning over and kissing Zayn full on the mouth. “Honestly, love, don't worry. Everyone loves you.”

Which was the problem, of course.

Perrie left with another quick peck on the mouth, grabbing her purse, a tote containing her lunch, and a smart leather briefcase from off the kitchen cabinet and promising that she would cook for Zayn when she got home as celebration for his first day back as a Teachers Assistant. Zayn appreciated the offer, but he doubted that Perrie would be able to find the time. Perrie and Zayn had met as undergraduates at UCLA, both enrolled in an absolutely awful Statistics class, and the two instantly hit it off, playing footsie during lecture and spending late nights trading nonsensical messages over AIM. Whereas Zayn then spent most of his undergraduate career trying to decide between being practical (studying something science-y that would make his family proud) or happy (studying Art History or English or History or some mixture of all of three), Perrie had her whole career planned out from jump. She immediately enrolled in Golden Gate University's School of Law in San Francisco following their graduation, promptly passing the bar and finding work at a progressive environmental law firm downtown. Being a lawyer did mean that Perrie had to re-dye her hair from the flashy purple she once wore, but Zayn could tell that her job genuinely made her happy, and the pay was certainly nothing to sneeze at. She worked long hours, but Zayn did, too, and Zayn recognized that he was lucky to find someone who understood what it meant to completely throw yourself into research and not emerge for months. They just worked together, in a simple and easy way, and Zayn loved her so much that it honestly hurt, but that was a whole other thing.

Whereas Perrie was a hot-shot lawyer making enough money to pay for their apartment in the Mission all by herself, Zayn hadn't taught for a year, and was starting to feel guilty about their payment differentials. He honestly needed the money, just to feel like he was helping, and serving as a TA paid, not well, but enough, with the added incentive that teaching helped him with time management as he continued working on his own dissertation. When Professor Cowell approached Zayn about helping with a Renaissance history class, Zayn was ecstatic about the opportunity. Zayn was technically in the Comparative Literature Department, but Zayn knew Professor Cowell from his undergrad days at UCLA, when Professor Cowell was an Assistant Professor teaching Baroque Art in the Art History Department. Not to mention that Zayn understood the interdisciplinary implications of something like a Renaissance history class, where there would be undergraduates from Art History, English, History, Italian Studies, French, Spanish and Portuguese . . . Zayn said “yes” before he even really thought it through. Only after the fact would he learn that Louis would be helping out with the class, too. Zayn and Louis were old high school friends who had somehow managed to keep in contact even though Zayn went to UCLA while Louis headed upstate to Chico. They both ended up pursuing advanced degrees, Zayn moving across the country to NYU for his Masters whereas Louis took a brief detour at UW in Seattle, but they both somehow ended up at Berkeley, which truly was a testament not only to their intelligence, but also to their likely insanity.

Pursuing a graduate degree led to a lot of strange, borderline insane, life decisions, but Zayn really did mean it when he said he loved it.

Zayn lived a few blocks away from 24th and Mission in the consistently foggy city of San Francisco, so he stopped at the shitty McDonald's across the street from the train station to grab a coffee and a hash brown before taking the train across the Bay. The train was moderately full so Zayn took a seat next to a teenager blaring Jason Derulo and pulled out the syllabus he had written up for his students a few weeks ago. He had tried to be both concrete and flexible in his tone, but wondered distinctly whether he came across as whiny instead. As the train roared along on the tracks, Zayn lost himself in worries of whether all of his students would hate him, and whether it made him crazy to care so much.

Zayn arrived in Berkeley around nine thirty, and the minute he stepped out of the train station he was immediately met with the smell of piss. Zayn followed the thick crowd of students up the street winding to campus, and pulled out a small slip of paper from out of his backpack with his new office location scrawled in tight script. Zayn was meeting with Professor Cowell and the other teacher's assistants for the Renaissance history class at ten, going to his own Comp Lit class at eleven thirty, sitting in on Professor Cowell's first lecture at two, and then immediately leading his section at three-thirty halfway across campus.

It was going to be a long day.

 

By the time Zayn settled into Professor Cowell's lecture, he was already feeling beat. Zayn had said hello to Louis and the two other graduate students during the meeting for the class, but their interaction was brief, as Professor Cowell immediately launched into expectations for the course, and a summary of what he would be going over in this week's lecture. His Comp Lit class was similarly full of introductions and expectations, and Zayn wasn't even able to meet up with Louis at lunch time because he was too busy continuing his earlier existential crisis to even contemplate having a truly fulfilling lunch experience. Zayn somehow ended up outside of the Renaissance history class a few minutes early, nervously tapping his feet on the floor as he waited for the Chemistry class before them to empty out. When they finally did, five minutes late, no less, on the first fucking day, Zayn walked straight to the front row, taking out a notebook before slinging his bag to the floor and squeezing himself into the seat. He watched interestedly as students flowed into the room, too busy people watching to notice a boy hovering awkwardly at his side.

“Is this seat taken?” the boy asked, jolting Zayn out of his ruminations.

“Oh, no,” Zayn said, gesturing at the empty seat. The boy sat down excitedly, taking things out of a leather briefcase, and Zayn took the moments where the boy was rummaging through his belongings to examine him closely. The boy had a bird's nest of curly brown hair, slightly tanned skin, and was rather primly dressed – tight dark wash skinny jeans, brown boots, and a pressed plaid button down that was open enough at the collar to expose the tip of two tattoos and several necklaces. The boy looked up and caught Zayn's gaze, smiling and exposing a set of dimples.

Zayn hoped that this boy was in Louis section, because otherwise he was about to be _fucked_.

“My name is Harry,” the boy said, extending a hand.

Zayn took it with a smile. “Zayn.”

“That's a great name,” Harry answered, still smiling. “Thank you for letting me sit here. This is my first day of classes, and I know this is an upper division class, but nobody on my floor is taking it so – yeah. I hope I'm not annoying you.”

“Not at all, Harry,” Zayn responded. “Although I must let you know, I'm not an undergraduate. I'm a Graduate Student Instructor – you've probably heard people throwing around the word 'GSI.'”

Harry frowned, pouting a little. “So you're like, a teacher?” Zayn shrugged apologetically and nodded. “Oh. Am I in your section?”

Zayn scrunched up his face as he reached into his bag and pulled out his roster. Next to each student's name was a small image from their University identification card. He ran his finger down the short list of names, and there, towards the bottom, was indeed the name “Styles, Harry” next to an image of the gorgeous boy sitting next to him, a bright expression on his face as he watched Zayn peruse the sheet.

Zayn forced down a sigh and turned to Harry and nodded. Harry smiled again, slower and perhaps a bit predatory.

Zayn was definitely fucked.

 

The first few weeks of classes ended up being fine.

Zayn had somewhat of a larger section than usual, probably due to the convenience of meeting up right after lecture twice a week as opposed to waking up for Louis' 9 AM offering, but the class was essentially dominated by a handful of students, pretty green eyed Harry Styles being one of them. The first day of class Harry walked side-by-side with Zayn from Professor Cowell's lecture to their cramped room in Dwinelle, and Harry claimed a seat in the first row, right in front of Zayn's desk at the head of the room. Harry was a charming motherfucker, Zayn had to give him that, and by the second week of class, Harry had already assembled a small clique around himself, including a lively blonde frat boy named Niall Horan who never brought his books or did the reading but was always enthusiastic enough, and Liam Payne, an earnest pre-Haas Business student who had the loosest grasp on European geography that Zayn had ever encountered (“The one that looks like a boot is Portugal, right?”). That didn't even take into account all of the girls who hung around Harry before and after class, batting their eyelashes and swaying into his space to lay a hand on his shoulder, or the students who just kind of stared at Harry, never quite summoning the courage to just talk to him.

Zayn would've been content to just kind of ignore Harry, but the kid was really fucking smart, and Zayn couldn't help but be drawn to that.

“You sure you're only a freshman?” Zayn had joked one day during class, when Harry had given a bit of a roundabout, although accurate, description of why the Medici family's patronage of the arts was so important to the high art produced during the Renaissance. Professor Simon hadn't even gotten to the Medicis yet – they were still discussing the art of the much misunderstood Dark Ages, hadn't even touched the rediscovery of ancient Rome and Greece and the accompanying return to realism, let alone the great Italian families that helped facilitate all of this culture.

Harry smiled, flipping his long hair to the side of his face. “I studied in Italy my junior year of high school,” he acknowledged hesitantly.

“That doesn't mean you necessarily remember things three years on,” Zayn responded, still impressed. “Example – Horan, I saw you in lecture earlier. What did we talk about in lecture today?”

Niall pulled a face and shrugged. “An empire, maybe?”

Zayn laughed along with the rest of the class before clapping his hands in front of him. “All right then, someone please give a quick recap of today's lecture for Niall here, and by someone, I mean anyone but Harry.”

Harry smirked at Zayn and Zayn tried to pretend as though he didn't see.

 

It was around that time, a few weeks into the semester, that Harry started visiting Zayn during his Office Hours.

Office Hours were generally an opportunity for Zayn to pretend to be working on his dissertation while Louis sat on the opposite side of the room and pretended to do the same. It was nice, sharing an office with Louis, and most of the time they ended up just kind of pulling up chairs and goofing off. Rarely a student would come by, usually with some banal ass question, or if a student was particularly ambitious, a really fucking banal ass question disguised as an interesting one. Of course, Zayn encouraged his students to stop by, but he remembered his own undergraduate days – undergrads generally only hung out at Office Hours if they had something they really needed from the TA, were a huge fucking suck up, or were trying to get into the TA's pants.

Which was why Zayn was initially so baffled when Harry showed up. Because sure, Harry was easily establishing himself as one of Zayn's favorite students this semester, but there was no need for Harry to be visiting Zayn during Office Hours – Zayn had already scheduled the obligatory getting-to-know-the-students meetings earlier in the semester, and it was only mid-September, so while Zayn had assigned weekly writing assignments and a five page paper analyzing a few key selections from Machiavelli's _The Prince_ – which Harry had energetically brought a copy of in Italian last week, oh God – there was absolutely no need for Harry to be sitting outside of Zayn's office one Tuesday afternoon, a copy of _Don Quixote_ in his lap.

“Getting a head start on the course reading?” Zayn had asked, walking up to Harry and lightly tapping Harry's leg with his toe. Harry looked up at the sound of Zayn's voice with another one of his blinding grins.

“No, sir,” Harry answered cheekily, getting up from the floor. “Just wanted to do a bit of light reading.”

“That's one of my favorite books, don't joke about _Quixote_ with me, kid.” Zayn turned toward the door and pulled out his key, but not before frowning at Harry over his shoulder. “I hope you weren't waiting out here long. Not to send weird, but usually people don't come to Office Hours unless they're having some huge crisis, or I've made them.”

Harry waved him off, tucking the book away in the briefcase he insisted on lugging around instead of a backpack. “Eh, it's really nothing. I got out of my Italian conversation class early, and usually I go to the library, but I figured I would come down here and annoy you instead.”

“How considerate,” Zayn said, rolling his eyes as he finally got the office door to open. Louis had left a ton of shit on his side of the room, which Zayn frowned at, but Harry took the mess in stride, retrieving Louis' chair and bringing it to Zayn's side, turning it around so that Harry could straddle it as he sat. Zayn sat at his own desk, tossing his messenger bag underneath the table and turning to face Harry. “So! What do you want to talk about?”

Harry shrugged, biting his lip. “Um. I honestly didn't come here with any set questions. I just wanted to kind of . . . chill.”

Zayn laughed. “Well, we can definitely do that.”

 

And that's how it went for the rest of September and into the early days of October. Harry would come into Office Hours every Tuesday, and he would sit in Zayn's office and serve as a huge distraction for at least an hour, sometimes more. Sometimes Louis would come back from dicking around, doing whatever it was that Louis did when he wasn't in the small office he shared with Zayn, and he would find Harry already there, sitting patiently outside of their door with a book or a math assignment or an Italian language workbook, waiting for Zayn to show up. At some point, Zayn realized that it was verging on something a little unprofessional, a little weird, even, that he was becoming more like Harry's friend than someone who was responsible for providing Harry's grade, but Zayn was so happy that he had someone new to talk to, someone new who looked at Zayn like he was someone amazing, someone smart and funny and worth idolizing a little, instead of the way others looked at Zayn, the way Zayn was terrified Perrie would one day look at him – like the emotionally stunted twenty-something that he was.

Zayn didn't exactly forget that this was the way it always started – he remembered. He remembered it all, but he tried to pretend as though it was nothing, that this was all harmless fun, and that he didn't entertain fantasies and dreams of something new, something dangerous, something unmistakably _Harry_.

 

Zayn was drunk. Like really and truly smashed.

Zayn and Louis had just finished administering the midterm for Professor Cowell, and, as was their tradition, decided to invite the students out for a night of karaoke as a reward for their hard work, and as a bit of fun for themselves before they had to buckle down and properly grade. There was a spot in downtown Oakland that Louis loved and it was a short bus ride away from campus, so a few days before the midterm Zayn and Louis sent out emails to their sections, inviting them out. Zayn was not expecting a huge turnout. The midterm would end at five on a Thursday evening, and Zayn knew that if he were in this lecture, he would much rather go home and sleep than hang out with his teachers.

Right after the midterm finished, Zayn and Louis collected all of the blue books and took them back to their office, dropping them in thick piles on their desks before locking the door and heading to the parking lot. It was mid-October but it still felt like August, the air hot and balmy as they made the short trek to Louis' parked car. He drove a black 2005 Honda Civic but treated it like a damn luxury car. He even called it Mercedes, the idiot.

“You can't complain, as you're the loser without a car,” Louis said, hopping inside and hitting the button on his door to unlock Zayn's. “I should make you take the bus.”

“It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world,” Zayn quipped. “The bus is free with the student pass anyway.”

“Whatever.” Louis switched on the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, driving on the road alongside the basketball arena leading off campus. “How many of your students are coming? I got RSVP's from about five of mine, which is decent.”

“Four or so, for sure. Styles and that hyper dude Niall Horan said they were definitely coming.”

Louis waggled his eyebrows at Zayn. “Oh, Styles? The one with the curly hair that is always hanging about the office?”

Zayn stared at Louis. “You know you terrify me when you make that face.”

“Oh, come off it,” Louis said. “You know that kid has the hugest crush on you. It's a bit disgusting, actually.”

“So? Plenty of students have had crushes on me.” Zayn figured it wasn't arrogance since it was the truth.

Louis shrugged, made a noncommittal noise as he stared straight ahead at the road. “I'm just saying that there is a student who has quite the thing for you, and now you are going to be in an informal setting, possibly with alcohol. That's all.”

Zayn could see where this was going. “Are you trying to tell me not to hook up with him? Are you serious right now?”

Louis' knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. “I just want you to be careful.”

“Louis, I'm with Perrie, come on! I wouldn't do anything like that!”

Louis made a face. He didn't have to say, “That didn't stop you before.” It was heavily implied in the thick silence that hung in the car until they arrived at the restaurant.

It didn't take long after that for Zayn to get drunk. There were already some students in the restaurant by the time Louis and Zayn arrived, and although Zayn was pretty sure that none of the kids currently present were of age, they had already ordered a huge pitcher of sangria and were steadily plowing their way through it. Zayn made it his mission to catch up. He was not exactly sure when Harry Styles and co. arrived, but at some point Louis and a few of his female students were up on stage screaming out the lyrics to a Pussycat Dolls song and Harry had decided to occupy Louis' seat, his long arm thrown across the back of Zayn's chair.

“How do you think I did on the midterm, sir?” Harry asked, dipping his head next to Zayn's and whispering directly in his ear. Zayn was not entirely sure why this was necessary. It was not even that loud inside the restaurant, but Harry's hot breath did feel nice against his neck.

“Told you a million times during Office Hours,” Zayn slurred. “Don't call me that. Just Zayn.”

Harry laughed lowly and Zayn distantly felt something warm unfurl in his gut. “But I like calling you 'sir.' It's part of my . . . “ Harry trailed off, pursing his lips in confusion as he thought. “Not teacher kink. But yes, part of my teacher kink. You should bend me over your desk one time.”

Zayn made a valiant attempt at completely processing this new bit of information, and failed. So he just kind of laughed and put his hand on Harry's leg underneath the table because it seemed like the safest thing to do. Harry laughed too, a deep chuckle, and smirked at Zayn like the canary that got the cream. And maybe he was, Zayn wasn't sure. All he knew was that the alcohol was thrumming through his veins, a warm and decidedly solid thigh was underneath his palm, and the familiar, if a bit neglected, urge to take, have, claim was spreading through his limbs just as quickly as the sangria.

Things became very blurry around this point. Zayn remembered kids filtering in and out of the restaurant, and he was sure that not all of them were in his lecture, but then Zayn was standing alone outside with Harry, sharing a cigarette and snickering over something. And then Louis was telling Zayn that he could give him a ride to Bart, but Harry interjected, something about “I'm heading to Bart, too, I'll just go with him,” and then Louis was driving away, but not without throwing a vaguely worried look at Zayn, but Zayn didn't notice because Harry leaned in and put his hand on Zayn's arm, so Louis drove back to his happy home and happy fiancee, and the air was crisp and Zayn was vaguely worried about losing his buzz. But Harry was close and smiling and really fucking touchy, and they were walking but then Zayn was pressed against the ATM of a Chase bank, Harry whispering, “Is this all right, sir?” as he ran his fingers underneath the hem of Zayn's T-shirt, and Zayn murmuring, “Just come back to my place, yeah?” And then they were on the train, and Harry was laughing and throwing his neck back while Zayn cupped Harry's growing bulge and eyed his throat, fighting the urge to mark him up in public, right on the train.

By the time the two of them got off at Zayn's stop, Harry's pupils were nearly completely dilated, and Zayn was fighting the urge to pull Harry into a random crevice and suck him as people filtered by and the mist fucked up their hair. The two of them somehow stumbled their way to the apartment, Zayn fiddling first with the keycode into his building and then the keys to his apartment, and when Zayn finally got the fucking door to open, Zayn turned to Harry, shushing him.

“Shut up, my girlfriend might be here,” Zayn said, first pawing at Harry's shoulders to push him back and then walking into the living room and over to the house phone on a side table.

Harry just stared at Zayn, his face half in shadow where he stood in the hallway. “Are you serious.” It wasn't even a question, not really.

“Shush,” Zayn said again, holding the house phone to his ear and checking the messages. There was one from earlier today, Perrie's familiar voice – “Hey baby, I'm going to be in a bit late, so don't feel the need to wait up. I might even stay and sleep at Jesy's overnight, this case is killing me – ” Zayn figured he didn't need to hear the rest of the message so he deleted it, turning to Harry.

“Well, we have either a few hours or the whole night,” Zayn stated, pulling his jacket off. “You can either gape at me and get out while you still can or come over here. I don't have time for any bullshit.”

Harry visibly shook himself. Zayn tried not to feel bad, knew that he had to remove any potential feelings from this. Harry was his student, and if they were going to fuck around, it was only going to be that. No emotions, no problems. He wasn't going to let any eighteen-year-old get in the way of the good thing he had with Perrie, and if being cold with Harry was the way to make sure that happened, oh well. Harry would get over it.

So when Harry cast a somewhat hesitant glance at Zayn, unzipping his pants as he did so, Zayn felt more pleased with himself than he had in a whole fucking year.

They messed around in the living room, Harry giving Zayn a sloppy but decidedly energetic blow job that led to shy frottage and hours of exploration, Zayn returning the earlier favor by lying Harry down on the couch after they shared a shower, asking, “Has anyone ever given you a rim job?” and delighting in the way Harry's choked off, confused noises gave way to filthy moans. Zayn just wanted to fuck Harry, well and truly mark him with his lips, fingers and cock, keep him screaming and moaning from how good Zayn's dick game was, and Zayn wasn't sure if it was because he hadn't done this in a while – the whole fucking around behind his girlfriend's back thing – or if it was because he had a bit of a student fetish, or if it was because of Harry himself, but all of these thoughts were dizzying and Zayn didn't want to deal with them – but after that very first time Harry came, a seemingly unending stream of cum spilling over Zayn's hand and onto Harry's stomach but thankfully not on the couch cushions, Zayn knew he had to do this again, and the sated and self-confident smirk that danced across Harry's face as he came back down from his orgasm told Zayn all he needed to know about Harry's feelings.

“Stay with me,” Harry whined some time later, in between rounds of exploring each other's bodies, pulling at Zayn's hand once he stood to go and grab washcloths to clean them both up.

“I will,” Zayn said, internally cursing himself for being so soft. But Zayn wiped away the evidence of their activities, brought spare blankets and pillows into the living room and blew up an air mattress that Perrie had bought on a whim a few years ago but which had never been used. And against his better judgment, Zayn let Harry curl up against him, Harry's larger frame a comforting weight against his side, and when Zayn fell asleep, it was with his hands twisting soft patterns against Harry's scalp.

 

Zayn truly loved Perrie, but sometimes he wondered how it was possible for someone so smart to be so unobservant.

Zayn had met Perrie through his roommate, Justin. Zayn and Justin were in the same lower division Statistics class, and Justin had pointed Perrie out the second day, saying, “Oh, I graduated high school with that girl! I'll call her over, you could use a friend as I'm probably dropping this piece of shit lecture.” Considering the twists and turns that Zayn and Justin's relationship would later take . . . well. This wasn't a line of thought Zayn liked to consider much.

But Perrie was all light and fun and witty banter, and she was loud and confident in a way that Zayn could never be, never hoped to be. She was easy at a time when nothing in Zayn's life was – not his classes, not his relationship with his family, and certainly not the tangled mess he was building with Justin. So Zayn asked Perrie out and it was witty banter and light and fun and if it wasn't entirely satisfying Zayn ignored the little nagging voice that whispered so insidiously against Perrie and instead he told himself that he would make himself better and make Perrie enough, because she was beautiful and she was smart and for some reason he couldn't understand she accepted him, and that was all he wanted.

There were always rumors during their relationship. Zayn had acquired a bit of a bad boy reputation during his freshman year, and he still occasionally hooked up with other girls, including his ex Rebecca. Perrie inevitably found out, but Zayn was always able to win her back. He tried not to think too hard about why it was always so easy.

Perrie never found out anything that Zayn wasn't uncomfortable with her knowing, though. A picture of his ex-girlfriend's ass? That was nothing compared to the deep wells of secrets that Zayn was still trying to fill up and build over, piece by piece, everyday.

And to be completely honest, Zayn's arrangement with Harry was not something that he was really trying to hide. Zayn didn't bother saving Harry's name as something else in his phone, nor with deleting their more salacious text messages. Zayn assumed that this was would be a short-term tryst, something that was convenient at the moment but which would end the moment Harry found someone his own age or once the semester ended. Zayn was fine with Perrie discovering his meaningless hook-ups – it was the long-term emotional involvements that he had to be guarded about.

But still, Zayn had to wonder whether Perrie was purposefully ignoring the signs in front of her or not. He never lied about who he was texting, and Perrie had even come home early from a work trip down to Kern County once to Harry cooking in only his boxers while Zayn was passed out in a post-orgasmic haze on the couch. Zayn still wasn't sure how Harry was able to spin that one to Perrie. She knew who Harry was, knew he was a student and that their relationship was inappropriate at least on that level – on the hanging out outside of class and apparently chilling together in their boxers level – but she never asked Zayn about it. Zayn probably would've found it suspicious if he wasn't so glad that he still had uninterrupted access to Harry Styles' increasingly impressive deep throating abilities.

Because the sex with Harry was pretty fucking amazing.

 

Before Zayn knew it, the semester was almost over and Dead Week had rolled around. Zayn had wanted to spend the last few days holed up in his apartment, crying over his dissertation, but his teaching duties meant he spent a good deal of time on campus in case any of his students needed to see him. He already had to field a few clearly frantic inquiries, but overall it had been relatively quiet and a good opportunity for Zayn to get some much-needed reading accomplished.

It was around two o'clock on Wednesday, and Louis was out hosting a review session. Zayn had left the door slightly ajar despite his desire to keep the heat contained within the small and poorly ventilated room. He was wearing his thickest jacket and had brought a throw pillow from home, but it was still cold and dark, with rain lashing violently against the window. Zayn was seriously contemplating leaving a note on the door so he could make a quick trip to Starbucks for a cup of coffee, barely taking in the article he was desperately trying to finish reading, when he heard a short knock on the door.

“Zayn?” a deep voice called out. Zayn sighed, rubbing his temples, and stood up, knocking the throw blanket onto the ground as he did so.

“Shit,” Zayn muttered, picking the blanket up and dusting it off. “Yes, Harry, just come in!”

Harry walked into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft snick. Zayn tried to avoid really looking at him but – fuck. Harry was wearing a long black coat, the collar pushed up in a poor attempt to keep his neck warm, and his shoulders were damp from the rain. He had a drenched wooden handle umbrella in one hand, and he used the other to push long, wet curls out of his eyes. Harry looked tired, pronounced bags under his slightly dull green eyes, but when he looked up at Zayn he smiled widely, and Zayn would be a liar if he said that his heart didn't momentarily stutter.

This was the last thing Zayn needed, but he knew that this was the moment where he had to let Harry down easily. The thing at the karaoke bar was a mistake, as were all the other times after it – he just had to make Harry see all of this that so they could end this semester and go back to the real world.

“Hello, Harry. How are you doing?” Zayn asked, sitting back down and pulling the blanket over his legs once more. He gestured to a seat on the other side of the cramped office but Harry shook his head, dropping his umbrella against the door and just staring at Zayn.

It was a bit unnerving.

“Is there anything you wanted to discuss in preparation for the final?” Zayn tried, and once more, Harry just shook his head. He was still staring at Zayn, his gaze piercing despite the obvious exhaustion his body was exuding.

“I didn't come to talk to you about coursework, sir,” Harry said, his voice pitched low.

Zayn sighed, running his hand through his hair and then cursing when he got gel all over his fingers. “Then don't you think you should drop the 'sir' act? I've seen you naked.”

“Aren't you a bit too young to be so goddamn bitter?” Harry blurted, his bottom lip trembling slightly. “What the fuck did I ever do to you? I've been nothing but accommodating but every time I try to really talk to you about shit you act like _this_.”

“Like what? Did you come here just to bitch at me?” Zayn asked, throwing his hands up and hoping to God no one was in either of his neighboring offices. “Because last I checked, I did not sign up to get lectured when we started this!”

Harry moved next to Zayn's chair, and for a moment Zayn was just struck by Harry's height, and the broad set of his shoulders – Harry could really hurt Zayn if he wanted to, and the thought of it set a thrill of arousal through his body.

When Harry crouched over Zayn, catching his mouth awkwardly in a rough kiss, Zayn let some of the tension escape from his own shoulders. Zayn wasn't really good at talking, at expressing emotions, and if Zayn was completely honest with himself, he didn't want to talk to Harry about this arrangement because he wasn't sure there was anything to say – not when Zayn didn't really want it to end, not when he knew that he should, before this became an emotional thing, but fucking – kissing Harry and pulling him closer by his collar – this he could do. This he was good at. This he _wanted_.

Harry abruptly pulled away, shucking his jacket off and throwing it on the vacant chair on Louis' side of the office. “You're not the only one who can use sex as a weapon,” he said, standing up straight and unbuttoning his jeans. “You're not the only one who gets to be a massive emotionally fucked up dick.”

“Shut up,” Zayn whispered distractedly, watching as Harry got his pants undone. Harry wasn't wearing underwear, as fucking usual, and he was already half hard. Harry spit in his palm and wrapped long fingers around the base of his cock, giving a filthy pull as he stared straight at Zayn.

“What would your pretty little Perrie say if she knew how easy it was to get you to be quiet?” Harry asked, his voice nothing but a deep whisper.

“You don't know anything about her, be quiet.”

Harry chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. “I know plenty,” he replied conversationally, still stroking himself languidly. “I know that you haven't fucked her right in ages, and she never explicitly turned me down when I asked if I could.”

Zayn inhaled sharply, tearing his eyes away from Harry's hand on his dick. “ _What_?”

“That day,” Harry said, smearing the precum beading at his tip over the rest of the head. His breath caught and he stifled a moan by catching his bottom lip between his teeth. “That day she almost caught us. When I was in the kitchen – you were asleep. You asked what lie I told her. I didn't lie. I told her I was fucking you, and that I would fuck her too, if she wanted.” Harry closed his eyes briefly and grinned. “She already got a look at what I was working with, can't blame her for being flustered.”

Zayn stood up, batting Harry's hand off his dick and pushing him up against Zayn's desk. Harry sucked in a quick breath as his legs hit the back of the table, but Zayn didn't care. Harry _had_ to be lying, there was no way Perrie would ever contemplate stepping out on their relationship. She was the good one, and Harry was just trying to rile him up. “You selfish little prick,” Zayn cursed, grabbing Harry's hip hard enough to bruise. “The fuck do you want?”

“I want you,” Harry said, and fuck if his face wasn't blindingly open, green eyes so piercing that Zayn almost lost his breath. To be honest, it almost hurt Zayn to look at him. “Isn't it obvious? I want you and I want her gone and I want you to fuck me over this desk _now_ , please.”

Zayn couldn't give Harry all of those things, he didn't even think it was possible to give someone everything. He couldn't give Perrie everything, even though he tried to be faithful and successful and all of the things she deserved. But Zayn did understand sex, and he understood that he had gotten frustratingly hard watching Harry play with himself, so Zayn unzipped his pants and once more did a prayer hoping that none of his neighbors were in their offices right now. Harry smirked and hopped back onto the desk, pulling his pants all the way off and lying back against the table.

“I prepped for you,” Harry said mockingly as he played with his dick. “Does Perrie get her ass all nice for you like this?”

“Shut up, you spoiled little brat,” Zayn said, but when he rubbed his finger against Harry's hole, it was to the discovery that Harry actually was loose and wet. The bastard – how did he walk over like this?

“You love it,” Harry murmured. “You love me, even, but you won't admit it because it scares you and you'd rather drown in a relationship with her than have to live with yourself and the truth.”

“Shut up,” Zayn repeated, and he punctuated it by slipping two fingers inside of Harry at once and pumping them. Harry moaned, running his fingers through his own hair. Zayn took this as his opportunity to smirk but Harry didn't stop talking.

“I know I'm young but I've seen a lot of guys like you,” Harry said, panting a little as Zayn continued to finger him. “Guys that want to make pretend like they're happy playing house.” Harry moaned again when Zayn pulled out his fingers, only to add an additional one. “But it's ok. I see who you really are, and it turns me on.”

“You don't know shit about me,” Zayn retorted, pulling out all of his fingers and rubbing them absently against his bare thigh. He swore under his breath before turning to the messenger bag lying against the side of the office, taking a condom and some lube out of an internal compartment. Zayn was nothing if not prepared, even if a coil of guilt spun through him at the thought. Zayn finally pulled himself out of his boxers, tore the condom packet off with his teeth and rolled the latex on, and squirted lube into his hand, all as Harry breathed heavily, eyes transfixed on Zayn's dick.

“I know all about you,” Harry said, tracing Zayn's movements as he walked back over to the table, Harry still stroking his shaft slowly as he spoke. “I know you're going to fuck me, and you're going to pretend like none of this ever happened when you go and kiss your girl tonight – ” Harry broke off on a moan when Zayn slowly began to enter him, but it didn't take long for him to start speaking again. “I know I'm not the first and I won't be the last. And I know you're not going to last long. Because all of this turns you on – ” And Zayn was pounding into Harry relentlessly, just trying to get Harry to shut the fuck up even though the words were coming slower and slower until it was mostly nonsensical, skin slapping against skin obscenely and Zayn was muttering to every deity he knew, hoping nobody could hear even though it all sounded so loud and so wrong, so blissfully right. Harry was panting, head thrown back, bracing himself with one arm against the wall, his cock bouncing against his stomach as Zayn tried to fuck the guilt away, but Harry still managed to grit out, “I fucking love you,” and Zayn hated himself for it, but his eyes caught with Harry's and he knew, knew that it wasn't just Harry trying to fuck with him, wasn't just the declaration someone makes when the sex is just that amazing, but the truth, the naked, violent and difficult truth, and so Zayn pulled out and threw the condom onto the ground, fisting himself roughly, and Harry knew almost immediately what to do, and Zayn didn't want to think about why that was, why they were able to read each other so well even though they only knew each other for a few months, and Harry hopped off the desk and knelt onto the ground. He licked shyly at the head of Zayn's dick, and then Zayn was coming, so hard that his eyes rolled back into his head and everything went briefly, shockingly still as his vision blurred white.

“Oh fuck,” Zayn cursed, coming back to himself and looking down to see Harry's face streaked with spunk, a flick across his cheekbone, a glob on his bottom lip, and a bit by his ear. Zayn pulled Harry up by the face, and laved at Harry's ear, licked a broad strip across his cheek, and finally bit at his lip, all the places he had painted Harry white, their tongues finally meeting and Harry let out a soft hum before sucking desperately on Zayn's tongue, swallowing down the taste of come and making hungry noises as he rubbed against Zayn's thigh. Zayn shoved at Harry by the shoulders, pushing Harry back against the desk, and then Zayn got on his own knees, spitting into his palm and making a fist around Harry's thick shaft.

“Please, Zayn,” Harry murmured. “Stop fucking around.”

“If it was another universe,” Zayn started. And he never finished, because he suddenly decided that sucking Harry off was far more important than saying something messy and inconvenient. Harry knew what he was going to say anyway, and if the way Harry damn near caterwauled “I fucking love you,” when he came – well. Harry said he had met plenty of guys like Zayn, and liked – no, loved – Zayn in spite of it all, perhaps because of it all, so there was no need for explanations.

 

Zayn hoped that he wouldn't hear from Harry after the semester ended, that this thing would be as fleeting as the university course that brought the two of them together. But Harry kept texting him, usually dumb, nonsensical things, and Zayn kept responding, and if those texts led to shared pictures and promises to meet up once classes started up again, now that Zayn wasn't Harry's teacher – well, Zayn had already convinced himself, when he was much younger and much sloppier, that he was nothing if not a self-sabotaging idiot.    


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And normally this doesn't happen – awkwardly running into your 'other woman,' but this is you, and your life is a melodrama, so of course it has, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tremendous thanks to Frida for being an amazing beta, cheerleader, and bff. Another huge thank you to Emily for being a sounding board for this chapter, and giving me ideas on how to improve the plot of this story. 
> 
> I'm dedicating this chapter to katharinewrite's fic [Harry's Room](http://archiveofourown.org/works/894031/chapters/1726007). I've never spoken to Katharine, but I realized halfway through this part that her fic was really influential in the way I write both Zayn and Harry, so shout out to her and her amazing writing.

By the first of January Zayn already knew that his whole year was fucked.

Louis and his girlfriend Eleanor always hosted a New Year's Eve Party – it was just their thing. Eleanor came from some money, and her parents had helped her and Louis buy a house in the East Bay after Louis proposed the year before. Their house was relatively modest, but they had a tremendous backyard, with a patio overlooking the San Francisco Bay. This year Louis and Eleanor had decided that the theme of their party was “Old Hollywood,” so Perrie and Zayn had gone shopping a few weeks before, trying to beat the holiday rush but still enjoying the crowds and the steady thrum and cheer that comes with the lead-up to Christmas. Zayn had hardly even talked to Harry that day, not until Perrie fell asleep on the couch, exhausted from hours walking in heels downtown.

On New Years Eve, Zayn walked into Louis and El's house, Perrie clutching his arm and tottering on sky high stilettos, blonde flapper curls stiff with hairspray, and her thin figure accentuated by a sparkly blue number. Louis and El still had all of their Christmas decorations up in the house, but as Zayn and Perrie made their way outside, where the air was brisk but it was thankfully not raining, they were met with a scene typical of New Years Eve parties – tinsel, bauble lights, lawn chairs, and a table laden with alcohol. Perrie tapped Zayn's shoulder, gesturing toward where Eleanor was talking to a group of her friends, and Zayn nodded, pressing a soft kiss to her temple before she unsteadily made her way across the grass. Zayn turned to the huge alcohol offerings, pouring himself a generous shot of whiskey before walking further down Louis' property to where he knew there would be some more chairs set up. Zayn sipped from his red cup and followed a tiny path down the side of the property, turning around a bush, and the first thing he saw around the bend were two figures occupying the same chair – one of those figures naturally being Harry fucking Styles, his arm lazily wrapped around the waist of a pretty blonde girl Zayn recognized with a jolt as Taylor Swift, a graduate student in the Department of Slavic Languages and Literature.

Zayn squashed a brief moment of panic, his breath coming up short and his brain going into overdrive, wondering if he should just turn and walk back up the path, back to Perrie, but Harry had already heard Zayn's footsteps, the edge of a smile creeping onto his face as he took in Zayn's deer in the headlights expression. Harry raised a hand up to wave, and Zayn didn't even think, really – just turned and bolted back up the path, past Perrie, Eleanor, and all the pretty girls that had since relocated to the alcohol table, and into the house, straight into the kitchen where Louis was pouring at least three different types of liquor into a bowl of punch.

“Gonna just walk into my house and not even say hello?” Louis called, not even looking at Zayn as he upended a bottle of rum into the bowl.

“Not now, Louis, please,” Zayn answered, standing awkwardly in the kitchen before turning down a hallway that he knew led to a bathroom. Zayn's brain was still in overdrive and he was not exactly processing his surroundings, but instead busy imagining increasingly awful scenarios, so he had to get to the bathroom immediately, where he intended on having a quiet mental breakdown.

Louis was having none of that, however – he had looked up, finally, and caught sight of Zayn's face, placing the empty bottle of alcohol on the counter before making his way over to Zayn, forcing their gazes to meet.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Not now, not here,” Zayn shook his head. “You're going to judge me.”

Louis crooked an eyebrow. “I never judge you. I wonder what the hell you're thinking most of the time, but – Zayn, you look like you need a good cry, man. C'mon, the punch can wait. Let's go upstairs.”

Louis dragged Zayn to the second floor, steering him into the master bedroom and locking the door with a quiet snick before gesturing for Zayn to sit on the bed. Zayn did so, plucking absently at the comforter before putting his face into his hands.

“I fucked up, Louis,” Zayn moaned around his fingers. “Like really fucked up.”

“Scale of one to ten?”

“Thirty-four.”

Louis nodded and took a seat on the floor in front of Zayn, pulling his legs up to his chin and looking at Zayn expectantly. “What happened?”

Zayn took a deep breath and tried to think of the best way to start. He realized with a jolt that there wasn't one – no good way to admit to cheating on your girlfriend, the love of your life, with your teenage former student, who was now in your best friend's backyard. So he just went with, “Remember that student from last semester – Harry Styles?”

Louis' own face crumpled. “Ah, I should've seen this one coming,” he muttered, half to himself. “That night we went to karaoke?”

Zayn nodded. “I brought him back, after. Perrie hasn't been – anyway. And we've – it didn't stop then. It hasn't stopped. And now he's here, downstairs at your party. And I didn't know he would be – he didn't tell me he would be. I'm feeling a little ambushed.”

Louis actually looked apologetic. “Eleanor invited that girl he came here with – Taylor or something? I think they rushed the same sorority at USC – I know that I've seen Taylor around on campus though.”

“I hung out with her briefly,” Zayn coughed, trying not to move around shiftily. Louis knew about some of Zayn's past affairs – Rebecca and Justin for sure – but Zayn had never told him about Taylor. She had honestly just been a quick fuck after hours in the History Department's Graduate Student library. “She's in one of the language departments.”

“Well, your Harry sure does get around with the graduate student crowd,” Louis said, resting his head on his knees. “Do you want me to make them leave?”

Zayn frowned. “That wouldn't be suspicious at all, right?”

Louis sighed, squinting up at Zayn. “I just – I don't know what the bro code is for this particular scenario, to be honest. You're kinda putting me in a shit place.”

“You think I don't know that?” Zayn snapped. “That's why I didn't want to talk about this – I never want to talk about this.”

Louis held his hands out in front of him, palms up. “I know Zayn – I know that you always kind of do whatever you want, without analyzing why, because that's easier, and I'm not trying to like, yell at you, or shame you, or anything like that, because we all do some shit things sometimes. And normally this doesn't happen – awkwardly running into your 'other woman,' but this is you, and your life is a melodrama, so of course it has, yeah?” Louis shrugged, unfolding one of his legs and tapping his foot lightly against Zayn's. “Can I just ask you something?”

“You just did.”

Louis made a small frustrated noise. “No, like – you've been talking to him, even after the semester ended. Why?”

Zayn shrugged, couldn't even begin to examine why it was December 31st and he was still talking to Harry. Because it was complicated, and this was only supposed to be just a bit of fooling around with one of his students, but there were feelings involved, even if Zayn hadn't fully vocalized them, and even though he was sure that whatever he was feeling wasn't as strong as whatever Harry did, but Zayn had swore, years ago, that he wouldn't let himself get emotionally tangled up in someone again, wouldn't sit up and wait for someone to send him a text, wouldn't sneak out of the room to take a whispered phone call, and wouldn't sit back and watch someone else leave, eventually, all the while choking down jealousy because it wasn't like he didn't already have someone right there. Zayn had been telling himself that he liked the attention, liked the idea of having someone young, beautiful and naïve telling him that they loved him, but – it was obvious, wasn't it, that Harry was young and beautiful but he wasn't quite that naïve, knew all the right things to say, all the right buttons to push, and who was clearly getting off with someone else, too, and that's what was getting at Zayn the most, that was what made Zayn turn with his tail between his legs, what made Zayn want to go and cry alone in the bathroom still, that jealousy, the realization that Harry had been sending cute little “I love you” texts for the past three weeks but it didn't stop him from finding someone else.

A small part of Zayn wondered if this was how Perrie felt, every day.

Zayn never could deal with jealousy well, which was part of the reason why things with Perrie were so easy, at least on his end. She never gave him cause to worry. It was also the reason why his torrid affair with Justin was doomed from inception – Zayn always felt as though he could do whatever he wanted when Perrie was looking the other way, so long as he didn't get caught, and Justin felt the same in his relationship with his girlfriend-turned-wife, Selena, but whereas Justin also didn't care what Zayn got up to in his spare time, Zayn lived with a constant nagging pain, an ache that seeped through layers of skin and rested deep in his bones, etching deeper and becoming more permanent every time Zayn ended up in Justin's bed, tugging his T-shirt off to discover yet another love bite from someone else.

Zayn always figured that Justin did it on purpose, a bit of a social experiment to see if maybe the jealousy would be enough to tear Zayn away from Perrie. It wasn't. It just meant that when Zayn and Justin's arrangement ended, their friendship similarly went up in flames.

Now Zayn wondered if Harry knew that maybe – but Zayn couldn't go down that road of thought.

“There's just something about him, Louis, and I wish there wasn't,” Zayn finally decided on saying. Louis didn't really have any additional questions after that, so he went downstairs to finish making his devil punch and left Zayn alone to have that breakdown.

 

When Zayn was sure that his eyes looked more like the red of a drunk and less like the red of a man who spent the last half hour crying in his best friend's bathroom, Zayn made his way back down to the party. Perrie was already well on her way to completely wasted, shoes off and sitting in the grass, laughing with one of Louis' friends. Zayn thought about going over to sit with her, but she just looked so happy, completely innocent and child-like as she smiled and gestured animatedly and Zayn just didn't want to go over there. He was convinced that he would ruin it. He always ruined Perrie's happiness.

“You just going to stand here and watch her creepily then?” a deep voice murmured into Zayn's ear. Zayn jumped, just a little, and turned around to see Harry grinning at him.

Harry looked really good – not that it hadn't been that long since Zayn had last seen him, winking cheekily as he handed in his final. Harry looked far more rested now – no more shadows under his eyes, and he had jammed a newsboy cap over curls that looked slightly shorter than they had a few weeks ago. He was wearing a long gray coat over a smart but plain button-down and dark blue trousers. It wasn't exactly Old Hollywood, but he looked warm, comfortable, and just really fucking appealing.

This was getting out of hand.

“Stalking my life now, are you?”

Harry shook his head and shrugged a little. “Taylor brought me along. All she said was that we were going to an old friend named Eleanor's house.”

Zayn resolutely stared at Perrie when he asked, “Taylor your girlfriend?”

Zayn could essentially hear the smirk in Harry's voice, didn't even have to look over to know that it was there. “Depends. Are you jealous?” Zayn bit the inside of his cheek and looked down, pulling a pack of Marlboro's out of his pocket to avoid Harry's intense gaze. “Then yes, she is. We've been dating since October.”

Zayn laughed lowly, playing with his pack of cigarettes. “You're an asshole.”

“Am I now?” Harry asked, running a hand down along the back of Zayn's arm. Zayn turned around and grabbed him, but all Harry did was laugh. “I know you're not trying to claim the moral high ground here.”

“I'm not doing anything,” Zayn spat, and he turned and fled back inside the house. Harry followed him in, closing the screen door behind them and crowding behind Zayn before wrapping his arms around Zayn's neck. “Let me go, Harry,” Zayn warned.

“Oh, don't do this to me now, babe, you know I was just playing,” Harry murmured, taking the pack of cigarettes out of Zayn's hand before kissing the back of Zayn's neck. “It's just you, Zayn, I love you.”

“Stop fucking around Harry, I'm not in the mood,” Zayn warned again, pulling at Harry's arms. “Get the fuck off.”

“You moody little shit,” Harry retorted, but the way he said it made it almost seem like an endearment. “So you get to have a girlfriend, but I don't?”

“You can do whatever you want, just get the fuck off of me.”

Harry let go, but only to put his hands around Zayn's waist instead. “Come on, Zayn, I'm honestly just playing with you. She's not anything, we're not dating or anything – I ran into her one day trying to find the Italian Studies department and I wanted to get her in my bed since I wasn't making any headway with you. She's fun enough but – it's just not passionate, you know?”

Zayn tried to ignore how familiar that sentiment sounded, so instead he spun around, grabbed Harry's belt loop and pulled him close, momentarily forgetting that they were in his best friend's kitchen as corny Christmas music played and his girlfriend sat on the other side of a screen door.

“I don't care where you stick your dick – you better remember that you're mine, you little fuck,” Zayn breathed, bringing one hand up to cup the back of Harry's neck.

“You've never said as much – since when?” Harry prompted, and Zayn honestly couldn't believe how fucking stupid he was – couldn't believe that that was all it took for Zayn to lunge forward, crashing his mouth against Harry's. They stumbled a bit, but Harry dug one hand into Zayn's hip, and used the other to brace himself awkwardly against the kitchen wall, sucking Zayn's bottom lip into his mouth before righting them and pushing Zayn up against a photograph of El and Louis on vacation in Philadelphia, Harry's fingers tight enough against the skin that Zayn was positive he was well on his way to bruising. “Bathroom,” Zayn somehow bit out against Harry's teeth, and they stumbled down the hallway, pausing intermittently to shove each other against walls, grab at flesh, and bite at each other's mouths.

Zayn liked rough sex, but he had never experienced something quite so passionately violent. It was doing things to him, desperately hard so fucking quickly, his cock insistently begging for friction and for Harry's touch. As they maneuvered themselves into the cramped bathroom, absolutely nothing was coordinated, not the way Harry banged his head against the mirror when Zayn shoved for him to get up onto the counter, nor the way Zayn jammed his fist against Harry's mouth to keep him quiet, using his left hand to unbutton Harry's trousers and shove his fingers below the band of Harry's boxer briefs.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harry chanted around Zayn's fist. Zayn spit into his left palm and started to stroke Harry, dick already desperately wet with precum, but it was awkward, Zayn not naturally left-handed.

“Shut the fuck up,” Zayn said, bringing his left hand, still wet with spit and salty with precome, and switching, so that he could wrap his right hand around Harry's thickness. Harry moaned, taking Zayn's fingers into his mouth and lapping at his own saltiness in broad, thick strokes. “Ugh, fuck, look at you,” Zayn said, slowing his movements and watching Harry's pink tongue as it darted out and around each of Zayn's fingers. “So fucking hot, you're so fucking hot, Harry, my God.”

“Shut up and just fuck me,” Harry whispered against Zayn's index finger. “Just fuck me, okay? Before your girlfriend realizes you're gone.”

Zayn stilled. “I don't have any condoms. Do you?”

Harry paused, looking vaguely affronted. “No, you usually take care of all of that. Why – you don't trust me?”

“Why would I?”

“You've put your mouth on my ass,” Harry pointed out. “Now suddenly you're concerned about transmitting weird shit?”

“Are you seriously trying to talk me into fucking you without a condom right now?” Zayn countered. “Is this a conversation we're having in my best friend's bathroom on fucking New Years Eve?”

“I don't have anything,” Harry said, pushing Zayn's still hand off of his dick. “If anything, I should be asking you for a condom, since you apparently have a habit of fucking young, confused teenagers in your best friend's house.” Harry pouted at Zayn. “I'm actually a little offended right now, so you know what? Go away. I don't wanna hook up with you anymore.”

Zayn looked pointedly at Harry's cock. “Sure about that?”

“Shut up – I'm a compulsive liar, go away” Harry muttered. “Just fuck me, come on, who cares? I'm clean, you're probably clean too, if the way you're freaking out right now is any indication. Just pull out when you're about to come, ok?”

“Why can't I just blow you and finger you a bit?”

“Shut up and fuck me!” Harry all but screeched. Zayn shoved a hand over his mouth and punched him in his shoulder.

“What is wrong with you? Do you want everyone to know what we're up to?”

Harry half shrugged before biting at Zayn's hand. “No hitting, unless it's your dick hitting my prostate, you fuck!”

Zayn rubbed his hand against his leg and then took a step back away from the counter, leaning his head against the wall. “I can't believe this is my life, right now.”

“You could always leave,” Harry whispered meanly. “Nobody is forcing you into a moral dilemma.”

Zayn knew that Harry was right, in his own weird, immature way. After another moment or so of pretending as though he was actually weighing the options, Zayn wrapped his hands around Harry's waist, pulling him off the counter, before sinking to his knees before Harry. They eventually found some lube stashed in the back of the medicine cabinet. Somewhere in the back of his head, Zayn knew that they shouldn't leave marks, but they did anyway – purple hickeys into collarbones, and a tremendous hand print against Harry's ass. It was completely reckless in a way that Zayn was coming to associate only with Harry and the way that he forced himself to look right at Zayn as he was getting fucked, instead of closing his eyes.

It was only when Zayn came, biting into the meaty juncture between Harry's shoulder and neck as he spilled all over Harry's thighs, that he thought about how nothing good ever came of thinking with only his dick.

They made it back outside in time for the countdown. The only one who seemed to have noticed that anything was amiss was Louis, who now knew what to look for and whose eyes narrowed at Zayn, not at all fooled when they came outside five minutes apart. Perrie was so gone that she hadn't even really picked up on the fact that Zayn hadn't been by her side for the past three hours. Zayn kissed her, his eyes squeezed shut as they greeted the New Year, and for this year he resolved to be a better man.

 

It was still winter break, so Zayn was determined to spend his free time chilling with Perrie, smoking a shit ton of weed, and trying out all of the new, buzzed-about restaurants in San Francisco. He had gotten in his early morning bowl one lazy Sunday morning before heading out for brunch with Perrie in the Richmond, when she muttered, “Oh shit, I think I just started my period,” and bolted for the bathroom. Zayn sighed and tried not to think too much about menstruation as he sipped at his tea and waited for her to come back.

He was almost able to detect the exact moment Harry walked in, steered out of the rain by an older man with a quiff like Zayn's, the man's hand resting comfortably, familiarly on Harry's lower back. Zayn hadn't seen Harry since the party a week ago, and he had been studiously ignoring Harry's texts as well, but that long coil of jealousy unraveled in his belly nonetheless.

Harry immediately noticed Zayn, probably felt the heat of Zayn's gaze, and he whispered something into his companion's ear, rubbing his arm soothingly before making his way over to Zayn's table. Harry slid into Perrie's seat easily, his eyes running over the half eaten salad she had left on the table.

“Fancy running into you here,” Harry said lightly. “Good to see you're still alive, since you aren't answering my texts and all.”

“I don't think you were losing any sleep over me,” Zayn retorted, his eyes still fixed on the other man who was watching Harry and Zayn's exchange wearily. “Where's Taylor?”

“Why are you asking me about Taylor?” Harry scoffed, picking up Perrie's fork and pushing things around on her plate because he was a little meddling shit. “And he's nobody, certainly not like that guy I let fuck me in his best friend's bathroom last week. So. You here with the missus? Trying to keep her happily oblivious with your cheekbones and half-assed charm?”

“Shut up, Harry.”

“You're so boring,” Harry said, throwing the fork down petulantly and rubbing a hand through his hair. Under the table, he brought his foot up to slide against the fabric over Zayn's leg. “'Shut up, Harry,' ' No I don't want to fuck you bareback, Harry,' 'I'm creepily obsessed with you whenever I see you with anyone else, Harry.' Stop being boring. Come to my house later.”

Harry moved so quickly through topics that it almost gave Zayn whiplash. “Harry, seriously.”

“Zayn, seriously,” Harry mocked. “Tell her you have a thing, she believes every dumb lie you tell her anyway. She'll let you go easily enough, will have pasta or whatever it is she knows how to cook ready for you on the stove when you get back.”

Zayn shook his head. “Harry, I was avoiding your texts for a reason. You're bad for me.”

“No,” Harry replied emphatically. “She's bad for you. She makes you live in a constant state of guilt over who you are, what you choose to do – or who, rather. I'm fine. We're fine. Or we would be, if you just came over later.” Harry grabbed Zayn's hands from across the table, rubbing his thumb soothingly over Zayn's. “Please, Zayn. I'm not above begging.”

Zayn cut his eye over to Harry's companion and noticed that the other man was seething, his gaze transfixed on where Zayn and Harry's hands met. “Your friend is looking a little pissed.”

Harry smirked at Zayn. “I'll take that as a yes, since we both know your jealous streak dictates your life,” Harry said. “Just – you don't have to come over today. I'm living in a frat this semester with Niall and Liam, now, so it probably isn't the best – maybe you could take me out? Go out on a proper date, yeah? We can fuck in my bed later.”

Zayn eyed Harry warily. “You going to stop stalking my life then?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “There are a lot of trendy restaurants in San Francisco. It's not my fault Nick has the same type of expensive taste as your girlfriend.”

“Oh, so he's Nick now? I thought he was 'nobody'?”

“Oh,” Harry mocked, “you mean the way I thought you were single up until the moment you brought me into your girlfriend's apartment? Funny that.”

Zayn couldn't help but look back over at the man – Nick. Zayn couldn't even find the heart to deny how jealous he had felt seeing Harry walking in, cozy against another man. It was kind of one thing to see him with Taylor – hard to still feel too jealous over Taylor when Zayn had once gotten very intimately acquainted with her, as well, so he ended up nodding distantly, saying, “Fine, we can go out, but only if you stop pretending to run into me, you sneaky shit, I'm on to you.”

Harry leaned over to peck him sweetly on the mouth, winking and saying, almost convincingly, “We honestly just chose this place on a whim, sailor's honor,” before getting up and sauntering over to his companion. Nick looked dazed with anger, and opened his mouth to say something, but Harry brushed him off easily enough, grabbing Nick's arm, pointing outside, and leading him out of the restaurant.

 

A few weeks later, Zayn was standing outside of yet another restaurant, his lips curled around a cigarette as he beat out a text to Perrie. He finished off the rest of his cigarette with a long, lazy pull and put his phone back into the pocket of his leather jacket, throwing the butt onto the ground and stomping out the small ember. Perrie had made plans to go to breakfast and then shopping at the Stanford Shopping Center with her girlfriends Jesy and Jade. Zayn and Harry were still talking, spending more time on FaceTime than anyone should, but Harry was adamant that he wasn't going to fuck Zayn again until Zayn took him out on a proper date. “You have spent zero money on me,” Harry had said, half jokingly. “I am not just a one-night stand. At this point, I demand a minimum $20 meal before you get to fuck me again.”

Zayn and Perrie hadn't been intimate in two weeks, and it was February now, so Zayn hadn't gotten inside anyone in ages, and now that he knew what it was like to fuck Harry without a condom – even though that was stupid. He knew that going in without protection was so, so dumb, reckless on a whole other level, and he shouldn't want to do that again, and Zayn promised himself that he would stop thinking about it, and he refused to consider giving Harry a real call, because he knew how that would play out.

Naturally, that meant Zayn called Harry the moment Perrie stepped out the door.

“You're up early,” Harry's smooth voice stated over the receiver. “Are you finally going to take me out? Come over to this side of the Bay! There's a great restaurant near MacArthur Bart that serves amazing mimosas and they don't even card!”

Which was how Zayn found himself standing around in Emeryville, waiting for his teenage fuck buddy outside of a little hole-in-the-wall joint on a slow Saturday morning. Zayn was about to reach into his jacket to grab his phone and punch out a “Where the fuck are you?” when Harry appeared at the edge of the street wearing a navy blue jacket, low-slung jeans and a thick, gray scarf. His hair was flapping about in the wind, but Zayn smiled at Harry, unable to help himself.

“Took you long enough,” Zayn yelled once Harry was in earshot and Harry laughed, his cheeks pink from the cold. Zayn pulled Harry in for a hug once he came to stand awkwardly in front of the restaurant's doorway, and Harry seemingly melted in Zayn's arms.

“I know you don't want to hear this, but I missed you,” Harry muttered into Zayn's hair.

Zayn closed his eyes and shook his head, willing the warmth that came from Harry's words to go away. “It was only a few weeks.” But Zayn couldn't help himself from shyly adding, “I missed you, too.”

They were seated immediately at a tiny round table once they went inside. The waitress, a petite girl with green hair, took both of their orders for mimosas without asking for identification, causing Harry to smile smugly once she had gone away.

“God, you are so young sometimes,” Zayn remarked, looking up from his perusal of the menu with a small smirk playing at the side of his mouth. “I love getting carded. It makes me feel young.”

“You're not even old,” Harry said dismissively. “How old are you? Like twenty-five?”

“Just turned twenty-seven,” Zayn responded.

“You're the most ravishingly handsome twenty-seven year old I've ever met,” Harry responded earnestly, beaming at Zayn, and Zayn tried to hide his own smile behind his menu. Harry scuffed his shoe up against Zayn's before turning to his own menu. “Hm, I really want pancakes. Do you think they could do a smiley face in whipped cream and fruit on mine?”

“Are you sure you're eighteen and not five?” Zayn inquired and Harry slapped at his arm.

“Don't let them hear you, I want my mimosa, damn it,” Harry whispered. “And I'm not eighteen – I turned nineteen last weekend.”

Zayn frowned, opening his mouth to respond when their server returned, setting the mimosas in front of them and asking, “Are you two ready to order?” Harry quickly placed his order for pancakes, and Zayn asked for a vegetarian omelet, waiting for the waitress to jot everything down before returning to their earlier conversation. “Why didn't you let me know that it was your birthday?”

“I'm pretty sure I did,” Harry answered, taking a sip from his mimosa. “When we were on FaceTime last week, I screamed it before Snapchatting you my dick. I was drunk though, maybe you were just humoring me.”

Zayn smiled a little guiltily. “Yeah, I just assumed you were drunk, sorry babe.”

“It's ok,” Harry replied, running his finger along the wood of the table. “I love ya anyway.”

This time, Zayn had to fight down every impulse not to say “I love you, too.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading!
> 
> I'm trying to get on a regular writing and posting schedule for this fic. Ideally I'll have Part Three up by next Sunday. 
> 
> You might have also noticed that this is now a six chapter fic, as opposed to three . . . yeah.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Zayn totally immersed himself in a routine, and it was good, everything was going so well. Zayn should've seen that it would all inevitably go to shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I finished this part early.
> 
> Thanks again to Frida for being the best cheerleader, and for giving me the best (worst) ideas.
> 
> Feel free to reach out to me on [tumblr](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/) or [twitter!](https://twitter.com/xtracalidopechk)

Zayn had only ever had his heart broken once. It was when Justin left, leaving nothing but the debris of their friendship in his wake. Zayn had resolved to never let himself get so vulnerable that it would happen again.

But now, he was trying to squash down the edge of a panic attack, his chest painfully constricting and _oh_ , he could remember it all now, this was kind of what heartbreak felt like.

Zayn had come back from campus, another average March afternoon, eyes heavy from reading and grading, and the ride back to San Francisco had never seemed as long as it did today. Zayn had gotten off at his stop, grabbed a few things from the little Mexican market next to his apartment, and he had checked his phone a few times and sent off a few inane responses to Harry's texts, which should not be a habit, but it was.

Zayn had taken up the job of serving as Graduate Student Instructor again at the beginning of the semester, but this time he was leading a Research Seminar for juniors and seniors. It was a much more intimate section and ultimately a very time-intensive commitment, but Zayn was getting really close to wrapping up his dissertation, and was excited to design his own curriculum. Louis was also a TA this semester, helping with Professor Cowell's class on Christianity in the Early Modern World, so the two shared an office again, but Louis tended to only be around in the morning, with Zayn holding court in the afternoon and early evening. It worked out remarkably well, since Harry had taken up the habit of coming to the office with the explicit purpose of hooking up with Zayn every Tuesday at two, right before Zayn's section. Zayn was pretty sure that Louis knew that Harry still came around, would have to be a little blind not to notice, not when Harry made a point of “forgetting” some of his shit in the office, but Louis hadn't said anything about it, just gave Zayn's side of the office a few pointed glances whenever they both happened to be in it together.

So it was another Tuesday, around six pm, and Zayn had walked the few blocks from the little tienda to his apartment, carrying his groceries in a cloth bag, and he nodded at his neighbors gossiping by the mailbox before making his way inside.

Even Perrie sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by paperwork and her tea cooling by her side – none of it was strange. Except Perrie jolted at the sound of his footsteps, and when she looked up at Zayn, her eyes were red rimmed, black mascara tracks running down the side of her face.

“Oh, babe,” she said, rushing over to Zayn and taking the groceries out of his hand, placing them on the counter before wrapping her arms around Zayn's neck and burrowing her face into his chest. “Oh, Zayn, I've missed you so much, babe.”

Zayn brought his hand up to Perrie's face, wiping at the dried mascara on her cheeks. “What's wrong, Pez?”

“Oh, nothing,” Perrie replied, sniffling a little and wiping at her face, chuckling when the back of her hands came away black. “Just a bit of a hard day at the office. I left early and I was just – just being silly. Hoped you would be here already.”

“I don't get done with everything on Tuesdays until 4:30,” Zayn reminded softly, taking Perrie's hand and leading her into the living room, guiding her to the couch. He pulled her into his lap, pulling her against his chest and running his fingers through her hair. “I've told you that.”

“I know,” Perrie sniffed. “I told you, I was just being silly.”

“You want to talk about it?”

Perrie shook her head, and her bottom lip jutted, a fresh set of tears running down her face. “I just – I've been such a shit girlfriend to you lately, do you know that?”

“Babe,” Zayn whispered, and there it was – that first crack in his heart. If she only knew – how could she even think that she was anything other than amazing? “Perrie, you've been a phenomenal girlfriend. You've always been – you just are.”

“Don't lie to me, Zayn,” Perrie said, sitting straight up and turning around to glare at him. “I've done nothing but work, for the past two years I've ate, breathed, and lived at that firm, and now they're talking about downsizing – I can't keep doing this.” Perrie brought her hands back up to her eyes and took a deep breath as more tears seeped down her chin. “You proposed to me, Zayn, and I told you 'no' because all I could think about was how it was going to impact my career. We haven't been intimate in more than a month – and now, with Jack – ”

Zayn's back suddenly went rod-straight. “Who the fuck is Jack?”

Perrie was evasive, but Zayn was able to piece together the story quickly enough. She had been flirting with her boss at the firm, this older man named Jack, and that explained a lot of the late nights now that Zayn thought about it, and the guilt had finally caught up to her ( _because she's so good, she isn't a liar_ , that insidious voice in Zayn's head murmured) and Perrie wasn't leaving Zayn for him, God no, but she was worried that Zayn was going to be angry with her and leave first.

It took a lot of wheedling, but at the end of it, Zayn realized he didn't feel half as jealous as he was expecting to. To be honest, Zayn didn't really care, couldn't muster up the energy to even pretend as though he was upset by something as minor as a few text messages and a half kiss. If anything, Zayn felt that maybe Perrie should've made a point of guaranteeing that she wouldn't be let go before she decided to flash her boss a little extra skin, because Zayn was nothing if not practical. Of course, that was the problem, the reason why she lashed out.

“God, Zayn!” Perrie cried, standing up to stomp her foot and brush her hair out of her face. “Do you even give a fuck? I could have _cheated_ on you and you don't even care! You can't even pretend to care!” And then it all clicked. Her face froze, it almost seemed as though the tears stopped mid-stream down her face. “Zayn. Zayn were . . . Zayn are you cheating on me?” The silence in their apartment rang loud. Perrie laughed cruelly at Zayn's frozen expression. “Fucking really, Zayn? After all we've been through? You promised never again! Who with? Rebecca again? The girl down the block? Some skank in your class trying to get an A?”

And Zayn knew he was caught, knew that if Perrie asked the right questions she would get all of the answers she didn't ever need to hear, knew it deep in his bones, and he couldn't let her leave, because the loneliness would crush his heart, right when it was only starting to heal itself from the beating Justin gave it. Thinking about her leaving – hell it was giving him a small panic attack, that intense clenching in his chest that he had only really felt once before.

Seeing Perrie beat herself up broke Zayn's heart too, but he could deal with that.

So he lied. Because he was good at it, and because Perrie always turned away from the truth and let the lies lead her back into his arms, and Zayn wanted that more than anything. More than actually having Perrie, more than vowing not to hurt her, more than he wanted the freedom to pursue whoever he wanted – as if being alone with all of his doubts and insecurities could ever be freeing.

Perrie could leave, and inevitably she would, but it couldn't be today.

So Zayn pulled Perrie into his arms, murmured, “That was the past, Perrie, I would never do that again,” as he laid her on the couch and made her tremble with his fingers and tongue. She only looked at Zayn slightly questioningly when he went into the bedroom for a condom – he had forgotten, it had been so long that he had actually _forgot_ that Perrie was the only one he would sleep with without protection, and not Harry, how fucked up was that – and whispered, “I want to see you, Zayn,” when he shoved his jeans off and pulled himself through his boxers, but he just shook his head and replied, “Lemme just take care of you, ok?” As though it was noble to fuck his girlfriend quick and rough on their couch with his socks, boxers, and T-shirt on, all to hide the massive love bite courtesy of Harry Styles on his collarbone. It was nothing like New Years when Zayn was able to convince a very hungover Perrie that all of the marks on his body were from her – nothing at all.

Zayn came rather mechanically, Perrie panting and sated underneath him, and as he tore the condom off, he wondered if maybe someone's heart could break from hating themselves too much.

 

And that was when Zayn knew he had to end this thing with Harry. Not that he really wanted to, or even had any concrete plan on how he would do so. Because after Perrie's confession, things between the two of them were really good, better than they had been in a while, a honeymoon phase that Zayn hoped to make permanent. Things were still a bit rocky for Perrie at work, but she came home earlier, and they goofed around and made dinner together, and fucked more than they had in ages.

None of it stopped Zayn from seeing Harry at least once a week. And things with Harry were going well, too – Harry was sweet and charming in a way that he hadn't been in months, not at all like the moody little shit that Zayn had become intimately acquainted with. They were doing more than just hooking up – well obviously sometimes Harry brought Zayn lunch and Zayn showed his appreciation by giving Harry a blowjob, but sometimes Zayn just helped Harry with his Rhetoric homework, and sometimes they just talked, and it was all just so _nice_. For the longest time, Zayn had thought that Harry was really just fucking with his brain on some level, only saying that he loved Zayn to see how Zayn would react, but now Zayn could tell – Harry really did love Zayn, or at least he had convinced himself that he did. Zayn could see it in all of the shy smiles when Harry thought he wasn't looking – that half-awed expression, the “I can't believe you're here with me, when you could be anywhere with anyone else” look that Zayn used to see on Perrie's face all the time. Zayn mentally noted each instance he caught that expression on Harry's face, or any time Harry took Zayn's hand with his and threaded their fingers together, or whenever he would lean across Zayn's desk and peck a kiss on Zayn's mouth, one that didn't linger, nothing more than a little “hello, there.”

Zayn had convinced himself that Harry was beautiful and young but not all that naïve, but now Zayn wasn't quite so sure.

 

In the midst of it all, Zayn totally immersed himself in a routine, and it was good, everything was going so well. Zayn should've seen that it would all inevitably go to shit.

It was mid-April. Zayn had come to campus a little early to do some grading in his office. The door was already partially ajar when he walked up, so he was fully expecting to see Louis there, working away on something, or goofing off on Tumblr, either were totally plausible options – what he was not expecting to see was Harry Styles, perched on Zayn's side of the room, dimples on full display as he laughed at something Louis said.

"Oh, you're in early," Louis greeted, flashing Zayn a smile, and Zayn just couldn't really process the scene in front of him, for whatever reason, and he knew that he needed to leave right that moment.

Because it wasn't like Harry and Louis hadn’t interacted before. The three of them used to hang out together all the time last semester, back when things were completely normal if not totally platonic, and Zayn hadn’t taken the plunge into the great, scary unknown world that included fucking Harry Styles. But now things weren’t normal, not in any sense of the word that Zayn knew – Louis knew that Zayn and Harry had something, had been something, maybe still were something, and had to know that Harry didn’t have any innocent reasons for hanging around the office. So Zayn was feeling a little fucked, very ambushed, and even a little betrayed, to be completely honest, not that he shouldn’t have seen it coming, not that he shouldn’t have known that Harry would try to cozy up to Louis, worm and insinuate himself into every nook and cranny of Zayn’s life until Zayn couldn’t look up without seeing Harry in every flat surface, every restaurant, every friendly face. It was a game that Zayn should have anticipated the moves of, because it wasn’t like Zayn hadn’t once tried to win a similar contest, before, back during his golden-hued UCLA days of staying up late and sleeping in even later with Justin.

And Zayn was realizing that he really didn’t want it to be like this – whatever this dumb game of cat and mouse was. So he turned in the doorway and left.

Harry followed him outside, because of course he would. He gave Zayn a few minutes before coming outside, so Zayn was already sitting on a bench in the courtyard in the middle of Dwinelle, his head cocked up toward the sky as he puffed through his second cigarette. His voice was probably going to be fucked by the time he led section later, but it was fine – he could play it off as a cold or something, instead of another Harry Styles induced mental breakdown.

“Did I do something wrong?” Harry asked, approaching Zayn hesitantly. Harry sat down on the bench next to Zayn and promptly shoved his hands in his jacket. Zayn knew that it was to stop himself from wringing his hands in his lap. “I didn't mean to make you upset,” Harry added, his voice near a whisper. “I just – I got out of my Rhetoric section early and came to see you, but Louis was already in.”

Zayn turned to look at Harry, blowing a puff of smoke into his face. “You're lying,” Zayn spat.

“No – ”

“Don't even dare play dumb with me, Harry, I'm not in the fucking mood,” Zayn said, turning back to gaze at the sky, taking another pull off his cigarette as he contemplated for the millionth time how this came to be his life. “How long have you two been hanging out behind my back?”

“What – ”

“Harry,” Zayn started warningly before sighing, holding his cigarette loosely in his hand. “You know what? Fine. We'll do it like this – I'll tell you a story, yeah?” Zayn took another pull off his cigarette, releasing the smoke slowly before stubbing out the ember on the bench. Zayn could do with something stronger, like a drink, maybe a full bowl when he got home, and a mindless fuck with someone who didn't try to psychoanalyze him, or give him vacant looks when he came home late, or manipulate him into doing things he didn't want to do just because they were nineteen and thought that being a fantastic lay entitled them to things. “Once upon a time, something like ten years ago, I was young, just like you. And I thought I was in love with a beautiful boy who promised me the world. It was all bullshit.” Zayn paused, wishing he had never started this, because the nicotine definitely wasn't enough to push him through it. But he would grit his teeth and bear it, just like everything else. “It was all bullshit, but I believed every word because I wanted to, because I thought it was a fun game, to see if I could make this fairytale I had concocted in my head a reality. You see, I was kind of like you in that regard – completely fucking reckless with what pieces of myself I shared with others, manipulative with my feelings, my affection. I made friends with all of his friends, even started dating one of them to see if he would care. And he didn't, because he was fucking gorgeous and everything he said was bullshit, it was dumb to expect anything from him beyond the slices of himself he parsed out. So one day he got married and we fought before his wedding, and instead of sitting through the ceremony as the best man who wanted to object, I spent the day drunk in bed, crying.”

Zayn turned to look at Harry, who was staring at Zayn with wide, vaguely pitying eyes. “Zayn, why – ”

“The moral of the story,” Zayn interrupted, “is that I've been through this before, and I used to wonder how anyone could be like him – Justin. I understand better, now, and I know that you should never expect anyone to leave their partner for you, especially if all you do is lie. So I'll ask you again. How long have you and Louis been hanging out behind my back?”

“Since the beginning,” Harry answered promptly, breathlessly.

“Fuck you,” Zayn retorted, and he got up and hid out in the library until it was time for his section.

 

It was easy to avoid Harry over the next few days, especially since Harry was avoiding him, too. No text messages, only one slurred “I'm so sorry, babe” voice mail, and there was nobody waiting for him before his classes.

It was much harder to avoid Louis. Actually, it was impossible.

Louis gave Zayn as much space as he was able to, probably. By that Friday, Louis was damn near ready to burst. He had actually sat down outside of Moffitt Library and waited for Zayn to come out before asking, “Are you done sulking now, or can we go get a beer and talk?” And Zayn couldn't really come up with an excuse not to, paralyzed by his surprise at seeing Louis there, so they went down to one of the many pizza places in Downtown Berkeley, Zayn typing out a rote text to Perrie explaining that he was hanging out with Louis and would be home later.

Louis ordered pizza and beer for both of them before turning to Zayn, his face uncharacteristically serious. “How mad are you at me, on a scale of one to ten?”

Zayn smirked, his lips quirking upward without his approval. “Thirty-four.”

Louis smiled a little as well. “That's valid. I will preface this all by saying that I legitimately did not mean to betray your trust, but – what are you most mad about?”

Zayn made a small disgruntled noise. “Besides you betraying my trust?”

Louis nodded, screwing up his face when their waiter walked by to place bottles of beers before them. Louis took a sip of his, frowned, and placed it back on the table, where he similarly kept his eyes as he asked, “Are you jealous?”

“ _What_?”

“I asked if you were jealous,” Louis repeated, some of his usual boldness returning as he looked up, quirking an eyebrow at Zayn. “Are you mad that I'm moving in on your territory?”

Zayn could feel the first thrum of anger pump through his veins. “Louis – ”

“'This isn't funny'?” Louis supplied, taking another sip of beer. “It's not supposed to be. I'm legitimately curious. Because like I told you before, when you first told me, I'm not entirely sure what the bro code is, here.”

“So you knew, at New Years.”

“No,” Louis admitted. “I told you I should've seen it coming, but no. Harry was just kind of always around, and he was chill, so we like, texted a bit, he emailed me asking for homework help a few times. I really didn't know he would show up that night, and while I figured he had a massive crush on you, I definitely didn't know that you two were hooking up. For some strange reason, I thought you had more self control than that.”

“But after?” Zayn pressed, actually leaning over the table a little bit, desperate for the information that Louis was slowly providing. “After New Years, he found me at a restaurant with Perrie. Did you tell him I would be there?”

“Zayn, do I know where you are at every moment of the day?” Louis questioned. “No. I did not tell him to go stalk you. I might've given him an idea of the type of places you _might_ be – ”

“You fucker.”

Louis shrugged. “I thought it might be a bit of a laugh, I'm sorry.”

“You can't just – encourage someone to go stalking – ”

“Well, you never exactly gave me a handbook on how to be a good wingman when your best friend is cheating on his long term girlfriend, now have you?” Louis countered.

Zayn shook his head. “Louis, I really don't want to have this conversation right now.”

“If not now, when?” Louis demanded. The waiter had already returned with their pizza, and he gave Zayn and Louis a bit of a sideways glance as he placed it on the table in between them before asking, “Do you guys need Parmesan or peppers?”

“We're fine, thanks,” Zayn said stiffly, pasting on a false smile. He watched the waiter walk away because it was easier than looking at Louis. “How come these conversations about you and your outrageous, completely out of line behavior always end up about me?”

Louis shrugged and grabbed himself a slice of pizza. “Because everything always comes back to how you're being an absolute idiot. And I'm sorry, Zayn, but there's only so much I can stoically observe without offering a bit of commentary.” Louis sighed and smiled small and genuinely at Zayn. “I really am sorry for betraying your trust. It honestly wasn't my intention.”

“I was expecting a 'but' there.”

“But you're being dumb,” Louis quickly added. “And I'm going to say the wrong thing here, but – have you thought about maybe breaking up with Perrie?”

Zayn stopped, mid-bite. “What?”

“I told you, the wrong thing,” Louis said quietly, placing his own slice of pizza back on his plate. “But I'm serious. You've looked really happy the past few months.”

“Because I've worked things out with Perrie.”

“I said 'months,' Zayn, not 'month.' I'm not saying you need to dump Perrie and get with Harry –”

“Good, because I never would – ”

“ – But maybe you need some time alone by yourself,” Louis finished. “I think you deserve some 'you' time. You've never been a single adult. You've basically been with Perrie since you were nineteen, and you've cheated on her the entire duration of your relationship, don't even make that face, I know you have. I have eyes and ears, don't think you haven't been the topic of conversation among many boys and girls at this university. Always remember, Zayn, just because I don't ask doesn't mean I don't know, and I think the same would go for Perrie – she's not as dumb as she pretends to be.” Louis sighed again, not even apologizing for calling Perrie “dumb,” and he wiped his fingers on a napkin before adjusting his fringe nervously. “Look, it's not fair to Perrie, it's not fair to yourself – we don't even need to talk about Harry, who legitimately asked me what he should buy you to apologize, just fyi, but I believe you need to seriously think about what you're looking for out of life or something, so – just, think about what I'm trying to tell you here, all right?”

Zayn held his hands up in surrender, nodding a bit. Louis beamed at him, and the two of them delved into the rest of the pizza.

 

Zayn resolutely did not think about what Louis said, and resolved to officially cut his ties with Harry, instead. It would be easy by this point.

 

“Are you serious?” Harry asked. They were at a coffee shop in Downtown Oakland, a trendy hipster space that Harry easily blended into, with his oversized coat, ratty band T-shirt and black jeans held together at the knee with duct tape. Zayn didn't miss the way some of the boys and girls eyed Harry's long form as he ambled into the cafe, even with the soft bags under his eyes, hopefully from stress at school and not stress from Zayn, because it was dead week again – Harry only needing to go through finals before his freshman year was completely over – and Zayn understood the appeal, understood the long, lingering glances, and he tried to fight down the spasms of jealousy, tried to tell himself that maybe Harry would notice the other gazes and find someone who made him happy, who treated him right and gave Harry all of themselves, and Zayn tried to ignore the idea that he used to wish the same for Perrie, back when he was younger and he hoped that she could see that Zayn was no good for her, back when a part of him seriously contemplated choosing Justin, even if Justin was no good himself, and their relationship was unhealthy at best.

Zayn figured that he needed to end this arrangement with Harry somewhere public. Zayn knew enough about Harry at this point to know that Harry would throw a scene – probably yell a bit, cry, whine and beg, and Zayn knew enough about himself to know that if he was in public, there would be less opportunities to go back on his commitment and instead hold Harry close, whispering, “You'll always be mine,” as he fucked into Harry, reminding him who did this to him first, until Harry's tears would only be from pleasure, from how fucking good it all was.

So Zayn let Harry sit down but didn't wait for Harry to flash him his most charming, apologetic smile before saying, “This isn't working anymore. I have to end this.”

Harry stared at him blankly, his green eyes unreadable. “Are you serious?”

Zayn nodded, awkwardly playing with his cup.

Harry mimicked Zayn's nod, a mean smile playing at the end of his mouth. “So you brought me all the way out to Oakland to tell me that you don't want anything to do with me. She found out then, huh? Or she's at least on to something?” Zayn didn't even have to nod before Harry plowed forward, his face paling with anger. “She finally realized how fucking disgusting you are, nutting off with your students on the couch she paid for – ”

“Harry,” Zayn warned, but Harry kept talking.

“And she probably cried a lot, and said 'Me or her!' because she can't even imagine that you let male teenagers eat you out – ”

“Harry, I swear to God – ”

“And you probably denied it all, probably lied again, told her some shit about how tired you are, probably even turned it all around on her and made _her_ feel like shit, when the only person at fault here is you, and will always be you, and yet here I am, wishing that you would choose me. Fucking – you _manipulative_ shit, yeah I know you always use that word for me, but why do you think I act this way? I'm only trying to match you on even ground – shit, why don't you realize that I want you despite your flaws, that I want you because of them?” Harry was breathing raggedly, wetness gathering at the corner of his eyes and collecting along his eyelashes as he blinked. “I'm going to fight for you. I'm going to fight for you and I won't stop, and you'll hate me for it but at least you'll be thinking about me.” Harry stood up abruptly, rubbing at his eyes and laughing bitterly as he took a small box out of his coat pocket and flung it on the table. “Have fun thinking about me when you're fucking her. I hope your guilt trip doesn't last long – my girlfriend's strapon really isn't quite the same as you.”

And with that, Harry swept out of the coffee shop. Zayn watched him go, feeling so tired and resigned, before his eyes landed on the small box Harry had flung at him. Zayn reached over and took a deep breath before opening it.

Zayn was terrified that it would be a ring or some other piece of jewelry that he would then have to explain to Perrie, considering that it was a jewelry box, but it wasn't. Zayn forced down a little surprised noise, coughing instead as he fingered the small baggie of powdery white cocaine.

Louis had said that Harry had come to him for advice on what to get Zayn as an apology, but Zayn was entirely sure that this gift was 100% Harry Styles.

 

Zayn sent Harry a text later, after Perrie had gone to bed and Zayn had delved headfirst into a bottle of Grey Goose. Zayn knew as he was banging random letters on his keyboard that he was barely coherent, but he was still horny because apparently the only way he could get off was if he was cheating, and he had realized with a crushing sense of finality that it would hurt to lose Perrie, but it hurt losing Harry, too. And this was all his fault.

And Harry sent a text back in response, cursing him, his mother, and every other thing that Harry could think of, apparently, and then another one, telling him to enjoy the coke because he'd need to be high to get off with her when he could have Harry, and then one last one, almost crushingly final and only a handful of words – "When you come crawling back I'll fuck the memory of her out of you."

 

So by June Zayn was miserable. God Zayn was really fucking trying to be faithful. He hadn't talked to Harry in weeks – well, not when he was sober. When he was drunk, though, that was always the first name his finger hovered over on his phone, and he was starting to drink quite a bit, Perrie watching solemnly as he poured himself shot after shot of whiskey, or glass after glass of red wine. Everything just kind of hurt, especially the quiet patience in Harry's voice whenever Zayn decided to go all Marvin's Room on him, and Zayn was starting to realize that he was a hot mess, acting almost like someone had died, but completely wallowing in his emotions was also comforting in its own strange way, as he tried to completely disassociate from that aspect of his life. If he failed again, at least he would know that for once he had tried.

Zayn and Perrie were both trying to make more time for each other. And Zayn tried to tell himself that it was enough, and Zayn could see it in Perrie's eyes that she was trying to tell herself the same, but when those moments of insidious doubt crept into Zayn's brain, he just shut them down with mindless research and with the sweet jasmine smell of Perrie's perfume as he nibbled from her neck to navel, tasting every inch of her as the television murmured in the background. His life was starting to become all white noise, so it all kind of made sense that one day he would rummage through his bedside table and take a little bit of the coke Harry had given him.


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I hate how well you know me,” Zayn was saying, because this was apparently honesty hour or something. “I wish you couldn't read me so well.”  
> “Can't help it, I put in lots of time trying to understand you, so now you're my favorite book.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, tremendous thanks to Frida for reading this thing over, prompting one of the scenes, and also helping me with the end since it was kind of important I got that part right. You are amazing.

Zayn was a junior at UCLA the first time he ever used cocaine. He hadn't exactly set out to do it, hadn't made it a priority on his college checklist – he had just been at a party when Justin walked over, his movements smooth, swaggering, and he grabbed Zayn by the shoulder, pulling him in against Justin's chest and whispering lecherously, “I've got something for you, babe.”

The first time Zayn had used cocaine, he realized that he might have a problem on his hands. Everything was simultaneously sharper and less focused, amplified, his mind vacillating between intense emotions so quickly that it frightened him, yet deep down, Zayn liked it, the loss of control, and he was afraid that perhaps he could come to love it. He felt confident, sexy, and vaguely invincible, whereas it just made Justin smiley and all round at the edges when everything about their relationship was sharp and uncertain, so Zayn decided he didn't mind the way coke looked on Justin, not that much. So Justin kept up with his recreational cocaine usage, and Zayn stuck to his herbal remedies, kush that kept him mellow and liquor that made him sleepy, and that was kind of that. Not that Zayn completely avoided coke over the next few years – it was just something that he only ever really did around Justin. Louis didn't know he had ever tried it, and Perrie definitely didn't. Zayn didn't try to think too hard about why Harry had bought it for him – didn't want to think that maybe Harry really did see something kindred in Zayn.

Zayn was having one of his moods when he decided to take a line, feeling like a cliché when he rummaged through Perrie's makeup bag to find a double sided compact mirror, using his debit card to make two straight white lines on the mirror's surface and going through the utensil drawer looking for a straw. Zayn almost wanted to take a picture when he got the coke just the way he wanted it – two gorgeous lines about the thickness of a pencil, each about as long as the cap of a pen, and he savored that moment of expectation before plugging his left nostril close as he held the straw to his right, snorting hard as he felt it hit the back of his throat and letting out one long, deep breath, dribbling water out of his water bottle onto his finger tip and inhaling that before hitting the second line, switching the straw to his left nostril. He used his credit card to clean up the residue and make one last, smaller line, before checking his nose in the compact and meandering through his apartment, dropping the straw off on the counter and cleaning off Perrie's compact in their bathroom before energetically tackling the bathtub with cleaning supplies, which was of course how she found him when she came home from work that evening.

“Babe, what are you doing?” she asked, walking into their bedroom and dropping her earrings on her bedside table.

“Cleaning,” Zayn answered shortly, but Perrie had already interrupted him with a sharp intake of breath.

“The fuck is this, Zayn?” she called. “What kind of shit are you bringing into my house?”

“We live in an apartment,” Zayn corrected, but he took off his gloves and dropped them on the side of the tub and walked back into their room to see what the fuck she was talking about. Perrie was standing on Zayn's side of the room, dressed in a plain black pantsuit that she had accessorized with smart red pumps, and she turned to Zayn and held up the (almost) empty bag of cocaine.

“Stop going through my shit,” Zayn answered, turning back into the bathroom.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Perrie bellowed, following Zayn and still holding onto the baggie. Zayn turned around and snatched it out of her hand, shoving it into his pocket. “How dare you come into the apartment that I am practically paying for all by myself, bringing drugs in here? I told you how much I hate that shit – how long have you been on it?”

“I've only taken like two bumps and all I've done is clean, calm the fuck down.”

“I don't even know what that means, number one,” Perrie answered, pushing at Zayn to get him to look at her. “Number two, don't act like you haven't been fucked up 24/7 the past few weeks, just because I don't say anything doesn't mean I'm not concerned.”

Zayn could feel it coming, the anger that didn't even need to be helped along by the drugs zapping through his bloodstream. Zayn wondered if he had somehow done this on purpose – he knew that Perrie wasn't a big fan of his pot smoking, which was why he only did it when she was out – wondered if a fight was what he was really itching for, an excuse for him to leave their apartment and go where the fuck ever, do what the fuck ever.

“Zayn, just talk to me, please, baby, just tell me what's wrong,” Perrie was saying, but like everything else, it was all white noise. Pure energy was thrumming through Zayn's fingertips. He needed to go.

“I'm going to go,” Zayn announced. And he took a few T-shirts out of his drawer, threw them into his messenger bag, and left.

 

There were a handful of places Zayn could actually go. His sister Doniya lived in Pleasanton – he could take the Bart train out and call her in the middle of the route, she would probably yell at him and tell him to go back home to his girlfriend, but she would at least feed him a bit and look at him with concerned eyes before making him leave. He could call up Louis, but Louis knew too much, and it'd probably be the sort of yelling, eating, and then kicking out deal, and Zayn wasn't sure he could face eyes that saw everything right now.

And he could go see Harry.

Zayn wasn't high anymore, hadn't really been all that fucked up by the time Perrie had come home if he was completely honest with himself, so he had no real excuse as to why his finger hovered over Harry's name, besides the obvious truth that Harry was clearly the only person he wanted to see right now.

So Zayn took a deep breath and hit “Call” as he walked down the street to his Bart station. Harry picked up after two rings.

“Getting your drink on earlier today?” Harry greeted.

“I'm not drunk, just stupid,” Zayn replied. “You're still here for summer courses, right? Where do you live?”

Harry made a soft, pleased noise. “Yeah, I'm still here. I've got an apartment a few blocks from campus, I'll text you the address. Lemme just – I've got someone over, I'll kick them out.”

“Your girlfriend?” Zayn couldn't help the mean edge that crept into his voice.

“Hmm, your jealousy is so hot, Zayn, I've missed it so much,” Harry whispered. “I'll see you in like, forty-five minutes or so then, yeah?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Zayn said, but Harry had already hung up.

 

Harry lived on the North Side of campus, a few blocks away from the main Engineering buildings, in a pale pink apartment complex. Zayn could tell immediately that it was a bit nicer than what most of the students could afford, no lingering and persistent smell of piss and booze on the doorstep, and quieter, too, but part of that could be the fact that it was the middle of summer, the only students around being the crazy and ambitious ones like Harry who opted to take hurried six or ten week courses. Zayn had to call up to Harry to get buzzed in, which he did, and Zayn took the stairs instead of a small elevator to his right in the entryway, walking up to the third floor and down the hallway to apartment number 304. Zayn rang the buzzer next to the door, and knocked for good measure, and he could hear a bit of movement within before Harry appeared, throwing the door back and leaning against the frame, smiling at Zayn widely.

“You're actually here,” Harry said, reaching forward and grabbing Zayn by the wrist. Zayn let himself be manhandled, let Harry pull him in flush against his chest, and let Harry look at him like a man who had gone without steak for months, only to be presented with a piece of ribeye. There was a brief moment where Zayn just looked up at Harry, who only seemed to have gotten more beautiful – taller, muscles more toned where Zayn's hand had come to rest against his stomach, hair still so soft looking, so Zayn just threaded his fingers there, at the base of Harry's head – and Zayn realized that everything about this picture just felt right, puzzle pieces that had been aligned wrong, readjusted so everything slot into place, and there was a warm, fuzzy feeling building low in his gut and he made an embarrassing noise that he would deny making, later, and surged forward, somehow aligning himself closer to Harry's body, pressing his lips against Harry's in a shared exhale. It didn't matter that they were standing in the hallway, where anyone could see them, and it didn't matter that they hadn't seen each other in weeks, and the last time they had was a disaster, because this was _it_ , maybe not fate, but something equally scary, something equally destructive in its ability to completely consume.

“I think I love you,” Zayn whispered against Harry's cheek when they finally broke apart, “and it scares the shit out of me.”

 

Harry's apartment was definitely nicer than the piece of shit that Zayn was living at when he was a sophomore at UCLA. The living room was light and airy, framed photography and classic rock posters all over the right wall, and Harry had a decent sized television hooked up to cable, as well as a faux leather sectional. The kitchen was quaint, with a small bar and three stools, and the apartment had two bedrooms, one of which was locked. “That's Liam's room,” Harry explained. “We're sharing next year, while Niall is living in a frat, but Liam is in New York on an internship for the summer.”

“So it's just you, right now?” Zayn asked, crowding behind Harry during the brief tour, hands running meaningless patterns along Harry's stomach.

“Yeah, just me,” Harry breathed, leaning into Zayn's touch. “You're welcome, any time. You've always been.”

Zayn nipped lightly at a slice of skin on Harry's shoulder. “I know. I just – I got into a fight with Perrie and you were the only person I wanted to see. The only person I've wanted to see.”

“Please don't explain, I just want to revel in how happy I am to have you here,” Harry murmured, turning around and cradling Zayn's face in his hands. “God, I've missed you so much, do you know how hard it is for me to not just go over there and bang down your doors? But I told myself – I wouldn't beg. I knew you'd come back.”

“I hate how well you know me,” Zayn was saying, because this was apparently honesty hour or something. “I wish you couldn't read me so well.”

“Can't help it, I put in lots of time trying to understand you, so now you're my favorite book.” Harry pulled Zayn back into the living room, falling onto the couch and dragging Zayn on top of him, running his fingers along Zayn's back. “But do you remember what I said – what I texted you, that night when you told me you wouldn't come back?” Of course Zayn did, so he nodded slowly. “I meant it, Zayn. I – please let me. I want to feel you, the way you feel me.”

Zayn and Harry had done a lot of things. Zayn was Harry's first in a lot of ways – Harry wasn't a virgin but he had never been with another man before, so Zayn exposed Harry to rimming, showed Harry ways of feeling good that nobody else had, that nobody else ever would. And Harry had asked Zayn a few times now if he could do the same to Zayn, but Zayn had always said no. Yeah, Zayn let Harry put his tongue there if he wanted to, and did nothing more than sigh lowly when Harry moved his fingers past Zayn's scrotum and pressed his thumb against that place that nobody had really touched in years, because it wasn't like Zayn hadn't ever bottomed before – he and Justin switched off when they were hooking up – but it was just something he didn't really feel comfortable exploring with Harry, at least not yet. It wasn't a matter of actual physical discomfort, even though Harry was a lot bigger than Justin and it would probably be painful initially, but it was all about power, and Zayn liked to be in control, liked to push Harry around and mark him up, wanted to tie him up this very moment, make him cry, and it was easier to do all of that if he topped, at least that was what Zayn told himself. Letting Harry fuck him would make all of this real in a way that he wasn't sure he was prepared to deal with yet. Zayn certainly engaged in enough casual sex to know that occasionally fucking would bring up some completely unwanted and unforeseen emotions, and Zayn also knew how intimate it felt to have Justin inside of him, and Justin was the last person to take him like that, so what would happen if Zayn let Harry do the same, Harry, who had quickly and seamlessly replaced Justin as the mistress in his life, the person capable of ruining everything he had with Perrie? It would be a disaster, it would be completely stupid, reckless, self-destructive to even seriously entertain the idea, let alone go there.

Which was of course why Zayn brought his hand to Harry's face, thumbing at Harry's supple bottom lip and promised, “I'll think about it.”

 

It was already late in the evening by the time Zayn had come over, so Zayn offered to pay for some takeout or for them to go get something to eat at one of the many restaurants nearby, but Harry brushed him off, and instead went into the kitchen, pulling things out of the cupboard and the refrigerator.

“Forgot you liked to cook,” Zayn said, climbing up onto the cupboard by the sink and watching Harry cut up bell peppers.

Harry shrugged, sliding the chopped bell peppers into a skillet before turning around to slice up an onion. “I'm a huge mama's boy – I wanted to be around her all the time, you know? So I watched her a lot in the kitchen, and was always offering to help. It's useful, I save a lot of money this way.”

Zayn hummed, fascinated as he watched Harry's fingers make quick work of the onion. “My parents own a restaurant – well, they own two now, both down in Southern California. I basically grew up at their first one, but I still can't really cook for shit. I'm very good at balancing things on trays, though.”

“Restaurant, huh?” Harry said, nodding distantly like he was filing the information away before turning back to the refrigerator, taking out some ground beef. “Hope you don't mind spaghetti, by the way – I need to go to the grocery store.” Zayn shrugged, smiling. “But a restaurant – you never mentioned it.”

“Never came up before.”

Harry smiled. “Fair enough.”

 

Zayn wasn't planning on spending the night, really, even though the clothes in his messenger bag might have insinuated otherwise. Zayn hadn't _planned_ anything. He just knew that he didn't want to go home, not to a girlfriend he couldn't exactly bear to look at, not when he was vaguely ashamed of himself – or ashamed with himself for not feeling ashamed, for not feeling guilty about his behavior, about his cheating, about his barely there approach to being a boyfriend – nor when he was pleasantly full, sitting on the couch with a movie playing in the background and Harry in his lap. It was so fucking domestic, comfortable even, and Zayn's betrayed brain whispered, “I could get use to this,” and the thought was a bit too much, a bit too much of a confession, so Zayn just closed his eyes and breathed.

 

Naturally, they ended up in bed together, Zayn braced over Harry, leaning on one arm while he used the other hand to guide into Harry, bare dick slick with lube as he pushed in. Harry sucked in a sharp breath as Zayn slowly pressed forward, before surging upward to wrap his arms around Zayn's neck and kiss him filthily, tongue curving wickedly around Zayn's. Zayn lost his balance a bit, falling backward onto his haunches, but Harry fell with him, arms still wrapped around Zayn, shuddering as the movement pulled him further onto Zayn's cock. Zayn brought his hands to Harry's hips, still only halfway inside him, and Zayn shifted into a more comfortable position, just sitting on the bed, before he pushed up that much further, Harry's mouth going slack as Zayn stilled.

“Whenever you're ready,” Zayn somehow gritted out, nipping at Harry's neck. Harry was impossible tight around him, and Zayn couldn't help the smirk that crawled onto his face. “Haven't done this with your girlfriend's strap-on, now, have you?”

Harry just groaned, wrapping a hand around himself before moving ever so slowly up, then down, on Zayn. “No,” he gritted out as Zayn breathed heavily, watching himself appear and disappear from inside of Harry. “Nobody can – not like – only _you_.”

“Always mine, right, Harry?”

“Always,” Harry growled, gripping himself almost brutally at the base of his dick, screwing his eyes shut and taking a long, shuddering breath. Zayn laughed wickedly.

“Almost come there, babe?” Zayn taunted, pushing up against Harry, who fucking mewled, entire face screwed up in a blissful mixture of pain and pleasure. “Miss this dick that much that you were gonna come before we even got started?”

Harry was still breathing heavily, his dick flushed where it rested between the two of them, completely wet at the tip. Zayn went to wrap his fingers around it, but Harry slapped him away before bringing his own hands to Zayn's neck, eyes dark, pupils dilated as he squeezed Zayn's neck experimentally. Zayn completely wasn't expecting it, wasn't expecting the hot punch of arousal that sent him coming inside Harry, hot coils that surged out of him, leaving him flushed and strung out.

“Ah, gross, you shot off inside me, shit,” Harry said, sitting up, dick still hard as Zayn's spunk dribbled down the inside of his legs.

“Sorry,” Zayn breathed. “I didn't know I was gonna – you _choked_ me, you little shit.”

Harry shifted a little guiltily. “Yeah, I probably should've asked before just doing that. It seemed like a good idea in the moment. My bad.”

“'My bad'?” Zayn repeated. “Do we need to have a conversation about boundaries?”

Harry just rolled his eyes, going back to wrap a hand around himself. “Can we do it after I get off? Having your semen inside me feels really weird, but I'm still horny so can I just come on your face real quick?”

Zayn sighed before laying back on the bed. Harry beamed at him before crawling over, working himself quick and fast before streaking all over Zayn's face.

 

The next morning, Zayn woke up with Harry spooned up behind him, Harry's erection pressing insistently against his bare skin. Zayn rubbed back against Harry a little experimentally, and it didn't take long before Harry was awake, too, sweating against Zayn, his fingers digging into Zayn's hip as slid up against him, begging, “Zayn, please.”

“It's not an impromptu activity, you know, Harry.”

“Fuck – I know that, Zayn, come on, _please_. I'm not above begging. I _am_ begging.”

Zayn hummed, thinking about all of the times he got Harry begging on his knees, before another thought flitted across his mind. “Why did you get me cocaine?”

“Huh?” Harry asked, still desperately thrusting against Zayn. “What?”

Zayn rolled toward Harry, pushing Harry's hips back gently. “The cocaine – when we fought, you gave me cocaine in a jewelry box, what was that all about?”

Harry just stared at Zayn blankly for a minute before his face split into a shit eating grin. “Oh yeah. I just figured we could have a bit of fun together, that's all.”

“Do you still have some?”

Harry shook his head. “I don't like keeping that stuff around, I only ever do it when I'm out to be completely honest. I thought you'd just throw it at me and give me a lecture, then we'd hook up, but – do you want me to get some?”

Zayn ran his fingers through Harry's hair before crawling over and straddling him. “Yeah, if you don't mind.”

“I never mind,” Harry breathed, thrusting up against Zayn. “Lemme just – ”

“Not now,” Zayn purred, shoving the blankets off of Harry and himself. “Just watch me, now. But later – we can have a bit of fun together.”

“You're only going to let me fuck you if you're high?” Harry asked, lifting up an eyebrow. “That's how it's going to be?”

“Sex now, psychoanalyze later,” Zayn whispered, before slinking down Harry's body and treating him to an amazing blowjob.

 

It was a Friday, so Harry had to get ready and go to class eventually, showering with the door open, so Zayn naturally joined. It was a wonder that Harry ever got out of the apartment, looking freshly fucked even with a beanie smashed over his curls, covered in hickies and promising to come back right after his class, wide eyes inquiring, “You'll be here when I get back, right?”

Zayn did stay, checking his emails and studiously ignoring all of the personal ones asking him where the fuck he had run off to from Perrie, who seemed to have gotten in contact with his relatives, as well as Louis, before shutting off his laptop and deciding to watch a marathon of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills on Harry's television.

Harry was back about an hour and a half later, smiling like a lunatic when he saw that Zayn was still on his couch. “You're here,” Harry said, hanging his backpack on a chair in the kitchen before walking into the living room, leaning over Zayn and kissing his cheek.

“I said I would be.”

“You say a lot of things,” Harry answered dismissively. “But I'm glad you're here – I was thinking about you all during class.”

“Really?” Zayn asked, standing up and walking around the couch, guiding Harry back into the kitchen and giving him a slow, filthy once over. “What about?”

“I wanna make things up to you,” Harry gulped. “For earlier – when I choked you. I should've asked – ”

“Eh, it's fine, was kinda hot actually, and I was joking about the boundaries thing – ”

“No,” Harry interrupted firmly. “I didn't ask, and I really should've. We should actually have a conversation about boundaries.”

“You thought about having a conversation on boundaries with me all during class?” Zayn asked, frowning a bit. “I definitely thought this was going in a different direction.”

“Zayn, no, that's – please stop and just let me say what I came back to say, all right?” Harry took a deep breath and looked into Zayn's eyes. “I want you to hit me.”

Without hesitating, without even thinking about it, Zayn blurted, “No.”

“What – no, you didn't even think about it.”

“I'm not going to hit you, Harry.”

Harry groaned and sat down. “C'mon, it'll – I wanna make it up to you, I really do. And I wanna talk to you about boundaries – and like, I don't have any. I don't want to have any boundaries with you.”

“Harry, you're nineteen years old, of course you don't think you have any boundaries. But I do – I'm not going to hit you.”

“You want to, almost all the time, you do, I can tell,” Harry said, his voice bordering just on that edge of goading. “And I really don't, Zayn – I trust you.”

“And you're stupid to,” Zayn retorted. “Of course I want to hit you, you're infuriating. Just because I want to doesn't mean I _will_. There are certain lines I don't really want to cross and I don't want to go there.”

“But I want you to,” Harry replied, stepping into Zayn's space, curling his hand into the short hairs at the nape of Zayn's neck and pulling _hard_. Zayn hissed, arching his neck, and Harry nipped at the thin skin there. “How is it different than what we've done before? You hurt me all the time, anyway, with what you do, what you don't do – how is this any different? Just tell me.”

“Remember all our conversations about emotional manipulation?” Zayn grunted, pushing against Harry's chest. Harry only gripped Zayn's hair harder, and Zayn's traitorous body thrummed deliciously at the sharp pain. Zayn was discovering all kinds of traitorous things about himself lately, it seemed. “And – boundaries? Crossing all the boundaries, right now.”

Harry grinned, letting go of Zayn's hair. Zayn stumbled back a bit, but Harry grabbed at Zayn's wrist, bringing him back in, chest to chest, squeezing Zayn's bicep with one hand, and bringing long, thin fingers to Zayn's neck with the other.

“I fucking dare you, Harry, I swear to God,” Zayn breathed.

There was a brief moment, where Harry just kind of stared at Zayn, a clear, taunting, “Or what?” in his eyes, and then he released Zayn's bicep, and brought the other hand up to Zayn's neck and squeezed.

Harry was always so predictable in a way, but so was Zayn, who just couldn't seem to resist giving in to Harry, always, every single time, protesting as though he was capable of doing anything other than exactly what Harry wanted. Because Zayn almost always wanted the exact same thing, because Zayn saw something completely irresistible in the cupid's bow of Harry's mouth, and had known it, from that first moment that Harry had walked into that lecture, with a perfect smile and such gorgeous eyes – Zayn really wasn't capable of turning down a pretty face, it had always been his weakness.

And it was easy to pretend as though Harry was twisting his arm – or in this case, choking him into submission – but Zayn really always _wanted_ , was always looking where he shouldn't, sticking his dick where he shouldn't, and he just had to have _this_. And Zayn always did exactly what he wanted.

So Zayn let Harry squeeze around his neck, closing his eyes around the loss of air and the swoop in his belly – and then he reached out and slapped Harry as hard as he could.

It was chaos after that, Zayn pushing Harry up against a kitchen cupboard and shoving a hand down Harry's pants, using the other to grab Harry's chin and smash their lips together, the kiss more teeth than tongue, more painful than pleasurable. “Off, off,” Zayn chanted, pulling at Harry's jeans, and Harry shoved them down around his knees, and Zayn hit Harry again, his hand closed more in a fist than a slap. Harry's head slammed loudly against one of the cupboards, and he groaned, spitting in his palm and reaching down between their bodies to take himself in hand.

“You sick little fuck, no,” Zayn said, knocking Harry's hand away and reaching up to grab two handfuls of Harry's curls. Harry mewled in a tortured mix of arousal and discomfort, and Zayn kept his hands in Harry's hair, twirling Harry around and shoving him to his knees. Harry fell to his side, jeans still comically caught around his legs, but he looked up to Zayn expectantly nonetheless. “You know what to do,” Zayn growled, unzipping his own jeans, shoving them and his boxer briefs down.

It was rough, even for them, even considering the frantic, violent sex that they engaged in on New Years. Zayn threaded his hands in Harry's hair again and pulled, he held Harry still while he thrust into his mouth, so deep that he could feel the desperate fluttering of Harry's throat, tears streaming down Harry's face while he choked around Zayn's cock. “Are you gonna puke on this dick, Harry?” Zayn taunted, pushing himself impossibly further, pulling off when a rack of coughs erupted from Harry's throat, slapping Harry's cheek with his dick until they subsided. “It'd be so hot, you'd be so fucking embarrassed, wouldn't you?”

“Fuck you,” Harry bit out, voice absolutely wrecked, words coming even slower and rougher than usual.

“Soon, babe,” Zayn murmured, and Harry looked up, lips raw, red, tear tracks drying on his face, and he looked so happy, because he was sick, but Zayn was too, and it worked, and it didn't.

Zayn wanted to come in Harry's hair just to be an asshole, but he didn't pull out in time, so Harry swallowed it all, and it wasn't like Zayn was going to complain.

 

Zayn had been living in a hedonistic den with Harry for a few days before Harry was able to get a hold of some cocaine. Zayn refused to answer emails from anyone besides his professors, and he had turned off his phone the moment after he had called Harry asking if he could come over, so it was easy to pretend as though he wasn't a grown man with like, responsibilities and a girlfriend and all that shit.

Louis and Harry were texting though – Zayn knew because he had looked through Harry's phone while Harry was doing homework one day. Apparently Louis had told Perrie that Zayn had come to sulk and mellow out at his house, which was really nice of him, but Louis was also demanding to speak with Zayn. Zayn didn't get a chance to thumb through the rest of that conversation, because by that point Harry realized what Zayn was doing and they wrestled over the phone for a bit before Harry successfully distracted Zayn with sex, just as he always did.

Zayn had no real timetable for when he was going to go home. He knew that he would have to eventually, but it had been so long that he had completely dropped off the face of the Earth that he was kind of really enjoying this time with no cell phone and little email. It was easier to do when Zayn and Perrie didn't live together, and Zayn used to do it all the time when he was in college with Justin – they would just fuck off together, mini road trips where they kept their cell phones in their backpacks in the trunk all day and Zayn would pretend as though Saturdays on the beach had the potential of being forever. Zayn liked to think he had grown up some since then – who knew if he actually had.

That Monday, though, Harry said he had heard back from the guy he usually got cocaine from, and that his friend would be coming to the apartment after Harry's Astronomy class. Zayn had since made his way through his own stash of T-shirts, so he had taken to wearing Harry's clothes – white T-shirts that bulged around the neck, exposing his collarbone and the mess of love bites that Harry left all over him, and jeans that were actually quite expensive, even though Harry wore them down in the knees and messily attempted to patch them over. They had settled into a bit of a routine – they would wake up and tease each other, then one or both of them would take a shower, and Zayn would set up camp in the kitchen and do some research while Harry did his homework in the living room, Harry would make something simple for lunch, they would watch some television together, and then they would usually hook up again at night. Harry's sex drive was fucking insatiable – Zayn had almost forgotten how awesome it was to be hooking up with a teenager – and Zayn could never turn down a good fuck, it was just kind of impossible. Zayn had gotten so used to being on the monthly cycle of a woman who was usually too busy or too tired for Zayn's own desires that he had fucking forgotten what it was like to be with someone who really had a hard ass time saying no as well.

Zayn was in Harry's lap, grinding slow circles down onto him, T-shirt long discarded on the floor, when Harry's friend buzzed up to the apartment. Zayn rolled off of Harry reluctantly and they waited.

Zayn was legitimately surprised to discover that Harry's coke connection was actually that guy from the restaurant – Nick, who knocked on Harry’s apartment door like he was the police and strolled into the space with a confidence and familiarity that made Zayn uneasy. Nick was too comfortable here in Harry's apartment – Zayn could imagine Nick shopping in trendy hole in the wall stores with Harry, picking frames for the photography they had been collecting, could see Harry and Nick moving that sectional into the living room, grinning when they got it just the way they wanted it, could almost smell the breakfast Harry made for Nick early in the morning to wake him up, bringing it into Harry’s room on a tray before pecking Nick on the cheek and eating together in bed. Zayn could picture it all so clearly, and from the almost jealous, guarded stance Nick took when he walked in and saw Zayn on the couch, Zayn knew – he could see it all so clearly because it had _happened_. Zayn had someone waiting in the wings for him, a beautiful girl with silky blonde hair who loved him for some stupid reason, and Harry had someone anxiously attempting to steal his attention, too, and it drove Zayn mad, knowing that someone was trying to compete with him, knowing that someone thought that Zayn wasn't capable of winning this game, this game that he had lost once before but had no intention of losing again.

And it struck him just then, in that moment – recognizing that he could probably love Harry, with all of his uncomfortable declarations, his selfish attempts at monopolizing Zayn's time, his crushing, devastatingly total understanding of what it means to be in love, in lust, that was all one thing – but recognizing that though he had tried to get rid of Harry before, he had thoroughly failed, and he was unwilling to fail again, desperate to cling to him this time – it was all so fucking much, but acknowledging it didn’t bring this clenching sense of finality like he thought it would, it was actually vaguely freeing, finally recognizing that he would claw to Harry, his – lover? Boyfriend? Fuck buddy? Certainly not his “friend.” What do you even call someone who so thoroughly ruins you? Who makes you question yourself so fundamentally? Who makes you so reckless you can't breathe, yet who makes you want to feel so in control that you want to cry with the power of it all? Everything about Harry was too much and never enough, but most of all, most importantly, Harry was completely, undeniably his, Zayn commanding a selfish totality that he would've found repulsive – because it was – seeing it on another couple, seeing it on any other pair of people. And that was what was so uncomfortable and simultaneously addicting, the completely fucked up aspect of whatever this was, whatever the name was for a lust so intense that it gnawed on Zayn’s bones, burrowed itself into the cavities of his heart and wrapped sharped tendrils around his lungs.

Zayn would probably drown in whatever this was. He should be terrified by the idea, and not so morbidly intrigued.

“Well, aren’t you two cozy,” Nick said, every word coming out long and wrapped in a drawl that Zayn immediately hated. “No wonder I haven’t been able to get a hold of you all weekend, Harry, you two have constructed quite the love nest.”

“Shut up,” Harry said, smiling prettily and guiding Nick into the living room, gesturing for Nick to sit on the far end of the couch next to Zayn. Nick shook his head rather politely, but his eyes were shooting daggers at Zayn. Harry either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“No, I don’t want to intrude on your rapturous lovemaking more than I’m sure I already have. I’ll just drop off your little drugs and go on my merry way.”

Zayn furiously attempted not to roll his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Nick said, studiously cool, and he walked back over to Harry to make the deal.

“Stay for dinner at least,” Harry pleaded, watching Nick make his way over to the door with huge puppy dog eyes.

Nick shook his head, the facade briefly slipping when he attempted to shrug and it came off sharp and jerky. “I’ve got plans with Pixie and the other girls tonight, don’t mind me. Enjoy your time with the boyfriend.”

Well, that answered the question of how Harry referred to Zayn at least. Nick smiled softly at Harry, that sad, self-effacing smile you see on the face of people ridiculously, hopelessly in love with their best friends, and saluted before walking out of the apartment.

“Good, he’s gone,” Zayn groaned and he damn near lunged at Harry.

 

Zayn and Harry each took about a line and a half before fucking in the living room, Harry's hands slick with lube, back taut with anticipation as he knelt before Zayn, taking Zayn's dick in his mouth as he pressed an eager finger inside of Zayn. It hurt, but Zayn breathed into it, reminding himself of how good it would feel, concentrating instead of the familiar sensation of Harry's mouth. The drugs were swimming through his veins, his brain amplifying everything, and Zayn knew he was talking, babbling really, nonsensical things about how amazing Harry was, how _perfect_ Harry was as he crooked his finger and added another one, and then another, burrowing into Zayn in a way that nobody had in years, and it was everything Zayn wanted but never let himself vocalize, so by the time Harry was opening a condom wrapper, already looking thoroughly ruined as he covered himself in lube, Zayn was strung so tight he was almost on the verge of tears, hand wrapped around his cock, turned on beyond measure.

“You're so fucking beautiful,” Harry murmured, stroking Zayn's face and peppering it in kisses as he used his other to guide himself in. Pain exploded behind Zayn's eyes, but he told himself to just breathe, it would all feel so good so soon. “Don't ever – don't ever leave me, oh fuck,” Harry was still saying, pushing in slowly, tortuously, and Zayn was probably crying now, torn again between that feeling of too much and never enough, but Harry was wrecked too, they were destroying each other and themselves, caught in this complicated web they had created out of their own insecurities, and it was perfect.

 

Zayn woke up naked, sore, and a little confused as to why he was lying on the living room carpet. Harry was on the couch, also naked, but completely knocked out, snoring lightly in his sleep. Zayn stumbled into Harry's bathroom and took a shower, disgusted with himself when he discovered dried cum not only on his foot, but in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Scrubbing himself clean, Zayn threw on his jeans as well as a T-shirt he found on the kitchen floor – Harry's – and grabbed his messenger bag, but not before writing a quick note on the magnet dry eraser board on the fridge, “Going back home for a bit. I'll call you.”

Zayn actually didn't go straight back home. He took a detour at the giant Macy's in Union Square and found himself perusing the jewelry. An employee came over to him, looking vaguely bored when she asked, “Are you looking for anything, sir?”

“Yes,” Zayn responded, deciding to give into his stupid impulses, because that's what he always did. “Do you have any engagement rings I can look at?”

Zayn had fucked up, and he wasn't good at apologizing to Perrie, never really had been, which was why he often didn't, but the last time he had proposed he didn't have a ring, just kind of threw the suggestion out there, so he figured that maybe another attempt at a proposal, this time with a modest white gold diamond ring might get across all of the things he didn't know how to – or couldn't – say.

 

By the time Zayn got home, it was midday, and his checking account was approximately $700 lighter. Perrie wouldn't be due home for another few hours at least, so Zayn took his phone out of his messenger bag and began charging it in the kitchen while he perused the apartment. Everything was in disarray – Perrie had let the dishes stack up in the sink and there was hardly any food in the refrigerator, and it appeared that she had been sleeping in the living room, sheets draped over the couch and their comforter on the floor. Their bedroom was similarly a mess – Perrie had gone searching through his things and had tossed his miscellaneous drug paraphernalia onto the bathroom sink, and she had stopped hanging her own clothes up, if the blazers and trousers strewn all over every bit of furniture was any indication. Zayn could only imagine what Perrie was feeling like today at work – worried, angry, unfocused, probably more upset with herself than with Zayn. She always beat herself up whenever they fought with each other, always thought that Zayn's shitty behavior was some sort of reflection upon herself, her own self worth. Zayn had given up on trying to convince her otherwise.

Zayn left the apartment again, walking down to the small tienda down the block and made small talk with the owner there before heading back with a few bags worth of groceries. He stashed everything away in the refrigerator before cleaning up the living room, then their bedroom, and finally tackling the pile of dishes in the kitchen. His phone was long charged by the time he was finished, so he decided to turn it back on, and cringed at the series of messages that came through, making himself read through Perrie's increasingly desperate text messages before deleting them all.

Zayn was cooking by the time Perrie finally came home. She looked like a mess – her hair limp and greasy where she had styled it up into a bun, and she had thrown on a plain beige dress and black pumps and thoroughly caked her face in makeup the way she generally did whenever she wanted to hide. She started when she saw Zayn in the kitchen, dropping her purse and briefcase in the entryway at the sight of him.

“Zayn, babe?” she called questioningly, walking further into the room.

“Hey, Pez,” Zayn answered softly. Perrie's face broke a little, and she choked back a small sob before running up to Zayn and slapping him soundly. “I deserved that,” Zayn acknowledged, rubbing the side of his face.

“Never do that to me again,” Perrie wailed before burrowing her face into Zayn's chest. “Oh my God, I thought you weren't coming back.”

“Course I was,” Zayn murmured. “I just needed some time. I – look what I got for you.” And Zayn gestured toward the small jewelry box that he had placed on the dining room table. Perrie made another small sound and ran across the room, opening the box and gasping.

Zayn didn't get down on one knee, and he didn't beg Perrie to marry him the way he had the last time. He just kept an eye on dinner and smiled when Perrie ran over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and repeating “Yes, oh my God, Zayn, yes.” It wasn't particularly romantic, and it probably wouldn't make for a good story once they would have to explain to people why they had changed their relationship status on Facebook from “In a relationship” to “Engaged,” but Zayn had never done anything right, not when it came to Perrie.

Zayn didn't say the words “I'm sorry” during the whole thing.

He resolutely did not think about Harry until he was alone in the shower that night, scrubbing the scent of Perrie's pussy from his beard. He wrapped his right hand around himself and tried to remember how to breathe normally, and not like a man who was drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, then an Epilogue, and I can pretend like this fic never happened.


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It should’ve hurt more, maybe. That should’ve been the moment his heart broke, not clean in two but in ragged edges, the moment that his world tilted and he went free-falling, the moment where he would’ve realized that he was alone out at sea and nobody was coming to rescue him. It should’ve been, but it wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Frida for being the best beta 5ever. Also giving a shout out to Emily because this fic would not have shaped out the way it had without her input. 
> 
> Thanks again to all of you, you're all amazing for still reading this, and leaving comments, and yelling at me on Twitter.

He woke up to the smell of lavender and the sight of blonde hair pooled across crisp white pillows. Outside the window, the trees were showing the first hints of fall, and he briefly admired the burnt sienna hues of the landscape beyond the apartment walls as he stirred. He stretched and slowly made his way out of the bed, careful not to stir the form beside him before taking a quick shower, styling his hair as best as he could considering he wasn't in his own apartment, and putting on his clothes from the night before, shoving his feet into a pair of boots he bought when they were out yesterday afternoon. He left without a word to the slumbering woman bundled warm in the bed – he liked her rather a lot, and maybe could've loved her, if he hadn't been roped into this thing he had with Zayn, but he wasn't sure if she would ever speak to him after this, once everything he had done finally got back to her. He didn't leave a note by her bedside table, didn't scribble a hasty explanation on the dry erase board on the refrigerator, just left and hoped she would forget about him.

His car was parked a block away, so he hopped in and drove to Louis' house in the Berkeley hills, pulling into a space a few blocks down near a small garden nestled behind a roundabout. He sat in his car and watched families make their way through the park entrance, and imagined what it would be like, to be that happy young father carrying a little girl on his shoulder, smartly dressed nuclear families, and suddenly he thought about how beautiful of a wedding ceremony Zayn would be having, if he ever got that far – Harry was sure that Perrie already had the event mentally planned, had been waiting for years for Zayn to get his shit together so they could finally take the journey down the aisle.

Harry had never intended for his life to be like this. He was still so young, only a sophomore in college, but he knew that the person he was in love with, hopelessly selfishly in love with, was freshly engaged to someone else, someone he willingly and habitually cheated on, lied to, and only thought he loved. Harry was young, and yes people always told him he was naïve, and selfish, and maybe a little manipulative, but he wasn't _stupid_. He loved Zayn, even though he was a habitual cheater and Harry knew he was basically the other woman in this scenario, even though Zayn had done nothing but lie to him and string him along, doing exactly what that boy – Justin – had once done to him, but Harry also knew that he loved Zayn besides all that, and so he was here to stop this engagement, if for no other reason than that he _could_ , and his heart was breaking, was already broken, and he wanted the whole world to know _why_. Zayn was an awful person, and Harry was too, and if they couldn't be awful together, Harry at least wanted Zayn to be awful by himself, completely and utterly alone, just like he deserved.

 

Harry had found out about the engagement from Louis because Zayn was nothing if not a tremendous coward. Harry really did consider Louis to be a very good friend – Louis had warned Harry away from Zayn very early on, saying nothing but a measured, “Be careful,” and then Louis had listened patiently when Harry had come to Louis with tears in his eyes after completely disregarding Louis' advice by hooking up with Zayn anyway. Louis was really rather nice, fiercely protective of Zayn but still aware of all of his faults, and Louis was pretty much the only person Harry could talk to about Zayn without any judgment. Liam got awkward and fidgety whenever Zayn's name came up – Liam still couldn't get over the idea that Zayn had once been responsible for their grades, and he was also very uncomfortable with the idea that Zayn had a girlfriend, who Harry had even met and seemingly got along with. “You shouldn't be enabling this,” Liam had whispered pleadingly more than once. “Find someone else, anyone else.” Niall, for his part, didn't seem to care so much about the fact that Zayn had once been their TA, nor did he care that Zayn had a girlfriend – “That's his baggage, not yours” – but he was constantly warning Harry to be careful. “Guys like that, who have girls that put up with all of their shit – they never really leave, you know? They always go back to that girl, unless she finally gets fed up with it, or unless they find a new, updated model of the same chick.” And then Nick – well Nick looked vaguely constipated whenever Harry mentioned how frustrated he was with Zayn, and while Harry knew that Nick was madly in love with him, Harry had no intentions of broaching _that_ conversation, ever. It was all a bit maddening, but Harry was glad to have Louis, at the very least, even if Louis frequently told him things he didn't want to hear.

It was about four days after Harry had woken up alone, the scent of Zayn's cologne still lingering throughout the apartment. Zayn hadn't called like he said he would, hadn't even texted, and Harry was trying to pretend as though it didn't hurt. Harry had been in contact with Louis the entire time that Zayn was at Harry's apartment – giving him updates and fiercely rebuffing Louis' attempts to talk to Zayn – but Louis had been quiet over those last four days, too. Finally, Harry just got sick of it, dialed Louis' number one day after class, and waited.

“Oh, hello, young Harold.” Louis' voice sounded falsely cheery. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Are you in Berkeley?” Harry asked. “I need to talk to you.”

There was a brief pause. “Um, yeah. I'm on Shattuck right now, about to get lunch. Do you – um, do you want to meet me here by the Bart station?”

“Yeah, I'll be there in fifteen,” Harry replied, and he quickly set off down the street, meeting up with Louis right by the train station and then setting off together to get lunch.

Louis was fidgety from the moment they sat down at a burger restaurant, reaching for the salt and pepper shakers, then playing with his straw and the watermarks on the table. Harry wanted to put his hands over Louis’ hands to still them, so he did, and Louis looked up at Harry, blue eyes clouded, troubled. If Harry wasn’t already completely sure that something was up, something really and truly bad, then this would’ve sealed it.

“Zayn’s engaged,” Louis blurted.

It should’ve hurt more, maybe. That should’ve been the moment his heart broke, not clean in two but in ragged edges, the moment that his world tilted and he went free-falling, the moment where he would’ve realized that he was alone out at sea and nobody was coming to rescue him. It should’ve been, but it wasn’t. The Harry from a few months ago would’ve made a scene, would’ve demanded an explanation, would’ve cursed at Louis, would’ve wished nothing but the worst for Zayn, and cried for days, swearing at God and the universe for everything that had been piled on him over the past year, the emotional roller coaster that he had somehow leapt into the first car of. Harry hadn’t really thought about it, but he had grown up a bit, so instead he didn’t really feel much of anything, just this crushing sense of disappointment. But he wasn’t even disappointed with Zayn – no, he was upset with himself, upset that he didn’t see this coming, didn’t see that this would be the final desperate move of a man who had nothing left to defend his king with other than a lowly pawn.

So Harry couldn't even say he was surprised – Zayn always made shit decisions. He was sure that Zayn would come running back, though, phone in hand, dialing Harry's number the moment that he landed from his honeymoon, hands shaking as he held the phone up to his ear, simply from the need to wrap sure fingers around Harry's dick, almost muscle memory, mouth yearning for the taste of Harry on the back of his throat. Of course, that was assuming that the need wouldn't strike Zayn earlier – sending covert text messages while beautiful, oblivious Perrie was in the shower, “I miss you, I fucked up,” probably a draft on his phone at this point that Zayn just edited and added on to.

“When?” was all Harry asked.

“Right when he went home,” Louis said, sighing and picking up his straw wrapper to play with again. “It was a struggle to get the story out of him, but it sounds like another one of his dumbass impulsive decisions.”

“He’s incapable of talking to her like a normal person, so he decided to get her a ring instead,” Harry reasoned. “And now he feels bad, because he didn’t really think it through, but he’s stuck. He can’t just ask for the ring back, since then he would have to explain why, and he’d rather not lie to her about how awful of a human being he is.”

Louis shrugged. “I’m sure you’re right. But she did say yes, and I’ve been roped into hosting an engagement party at my house in a few weeks.”

“Lucky you.”

Louis shrugged again. From what Harry had picked up, Louis was largely indifferent to Perrie. He never said anything mean about her, but he never said anything particularly nice about her, either. He had called her an idiot a few times, but he said the same about Zayn, and Harry, and just about everyone else he came into contact with. Harry did remember Louis grimacing after giving Perrie a hug at the New Years Party, but he had done the same after hugging Taylor.

Harry was largely indifferent to Perrie, too. She was hot, and he had definitely hit on her that one time she caught him cooking in his boxers at her and Zayn’s apartment – that wasn't a lie, when he had gone to Zayn's Office Hours for a phenomenal fuck, but the other half, about telling her what he and Zayn were up to definitely was – but Harry felt like most of the appeal there came from the fact that it would piss Zayn off beyond belief if Harry was able to get his head in between her legs.

“I think – well, maybe – you should come. To their engagement party.”

Louis' quietly murmured statement jolted Harry out of his thoughts. “Pardon?”

Louis sighed, shaking his head faintly. “I know – it's crazy. But I just thought it, and now that I have, I need to see it through. Can't help myself, I love to meddle, to make things _interesting_. You, young Harold, you're interesting.”

“Thank you,” Harry promptly replied. “But, let me get this straight. You're telling me to come to their engagement party and do what, exactly?”

Louis made a face at Harry. “I'm not telling you to do anything. I'm just putting the suggestion out there – to make a scene. Fight for your man. I don't know, something dramatic and crazy. Don't let it get all the way to the aisle, before Zayn loses all of his money in a messy divorce in two years – get him back now.” Louis paused and stared at Harry, his blue eyes piercing in their thoughtfulness. “Don't take this the wrong way, but you and Zayn are so fucking awful individually that you're almost perfect for each other, for no other reason that nobody else deserves to deal with your shit.”

Harry smiled, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “No offense taken. And you know what – you're pretty fucking great, Louis. I should've roped _you_ into the torrid love affair. We would've had a lot of fun with each other.”

“I think that might be the nicest thing someone has ever said to me,” Louis replied, wiping away a fake tear.

Harry left that impromptu meeting feeling fine. Harry could be patient – he didn't want to be, but he could be. And he knew who ultimately had the power in this relationship, even if Zayn deluded himself into believing that he had gained some control just because he acted on his half thought out choice to propose.

 

Which was, of course, how Harry ended up sitting alone in a car outside of Louis' house. He abruptly cut the engine, deciding there was no point in keeping the car running as he attempted to prepare himself for gate crashing an engagement party. Zayn hated feeling ambushed, and before it was always unintentional, almost, when Harry would just show up places and kind of hope for the best, and Zayn would be there, but now it was different. Now Harry was actively planning something, something big. He was already parked a few blocks from the house, had gone out during the week and bought new shoes, gotten a haircut, he had already made all kinds of grand declarations, Zayn knew exactly how Harry felt and could play that against Harry accordingly. There was nothing to lose, except the one person he had done nothing but fight for.

“Okay,” Harry whispered to himself, and he got out the car.

Louis had told Harry to come over around three. Louis had somehow convinced Zayn to come to the house separately, before Perrie – it probably wouldn't have been too difficult actually, Louis might have just promised Zayn alcohol and an open ear before having to return to the facade of happy coupledom. Harry could almost feel Zayn's presence the closer he got to Louis' house – it was strange, and it wasn't like Zayn had a car that Harry could spot as he made the trek up to the house, or like Harry could hear Zayn's voice floating out of an open window. It was something else, part of that intense indescribable force that consistently drew them together, and Harry wondered if Zayn could feel Harry coming, too.

Harry strolled up to Louis' front porch and sent him a text announcing his arrival rather than knocking on the door – it was a bad habit of his. He waited for movement inside of the house and was surprised when Zayn threw the door back.

Zayn was apparently equally surprised to see Harry, since he promptly slammed the door in his face.

“Zayn!” Harry called, banging on the door. “Open the fucking door! Please!”

Zayn threw the door open again, and Harry stumbled forward, right into Zayn's arms. Zayn huffed, pushing Harry inside and slamming the door behind them.

Inside, both Louis and his girlfriend, Eleanor, were sitting on the couch in the living room. Eleanor's hair was in curlers and she was nursing a glass of wine. Louis was practically on top of Eleanor, his eyes red and unfocused when he grinned at Harry. Zayn stalked past Harry and threw himself into the recliner across the room, picking up a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels that had been at the foot of the chair.

“Did you drink that whole bottle of Jack?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, but I wish I had now,” Zayn muttered.

“Harry!” Louis called, throwing his arms up and nearly hitting Eleanor in the face. “Welcome to Zayn's engagement party! Have you congratulated him yet?”

“Louis,” Zayn warned.

“Are you going to buy him and the happy bride something?” Louis continued, completely ignoring Zayn. “A blender? Membership to Costco?”

“A dildo that's a mold of my dick, more like,” Harry replied.

Zayn snarled at Harry. “Fuck you.”

“Been there, done that, babe.”

“Wow, this back and forth! It's just like tennis!” Louis exclaimed. “Isn't it, babe?”

“Yes, love,” Eleanor said, patting Louis' leg and smirking at Harry. “Just like tennis.”

“Or I could hire Zayn a prostitute for after the ceremony, I suppose,” Harry continued. “I'm sure his needs won't be met unless he's getting off with someone else on the side.”

“Why pay for someone?” Zayn asked cruelly. “I've gotten you for free for months.”

“Point to Zayn!” Louis exclaimed.

Harry sighed, bending his head forward to adjust his fringe. “Can we do this somewhere a bit more private, Zayn? Please?”

“No,” Zayn said, crossing his arms over his chest childishly.

“You two can go up to our guest bedroom,” Eleanor said, turning to look at Harry. “Just don't do anything gross while you're up there. Go, Zayn. You owe him that much.”

Zayn mumbled something that sounded dangerously like “I don't owe him shit” but he got up and stomped out of the living room anyway. Harry made to follow him, but Louis was suddenly at his side, pulling on his shoulder to keep him from following Zayn up the stairs.

“What?” Harry asked, a little irritated.

“Two things – one, I think Perrie is going to try and turn this party into a surprise wedding – ”

“ _What_?” Harry repeated.

“And two, I think she invited Zayn's ex, Justin.”

Harry started a little. “You know about Justin?”

Louis made a frustrated noise. “Of course I know about Justin, Jesus does everyone think I'm completely unobservant? I see everything! I am very observant, and very fucking smart, even, I mean I did get into graduate school at Berkeley!” Louis shoved Harry in the direction of the staircase, beckoning for him to follow Zayn up. “Now go upstairs and try to talk to Zayn, before all of this other crazy shit gets a chance to happen.”

 

The guest bedroom was the first room off the staircase, and it seemed to serve more like an extension of Eleanor's closet than a place that people were actually expected to sleep in. There was a huge dresser occupying the first wall when you walked in, and then a modest bed, side table, and several clothing racks that held some of Eleanor's dresses and boxes of shoes. Zayn was sitting stiffly on the bed, and Harry sat down on the floor in front of him. Zayn resolutely stared at his hands, causing Harry to sigh.

“Are we gonna talk at all or are you just going to sit and sulk?”

Zayn groaned and looked off at a point in the distance. Harry knew it was his way of not letting on what he was feeling, but Harry could see right through the facade, could see how anxious Zayn was. “I'd really rather not talk right now. I’m feeling ambushed again.”

“I’m sorry you feel ambushed, but you really do owe me at least one good conversation,” Harry said, standing up and sitting next to Zayn on the bed. Harry took Zayn’s hands into his lap, playing with his fingers. Harry had always loved Zayn's hands – they weren't long and awkward, like Harry felt his were, but Harry believed that Zayn's hands were just so interesting – fingertips calloused from years of holding a pen, the awkward jut of Zayn's thumb, the salty taste of Zayn's index finger before Zayn pressed into him _right there_. And Zayn always let Harry admire his hands without any complaint. “You told me you loved me, remember?”

“I said, 'I think I love you',” Zayn muttered.

“Which in Zayn talk means you already do and we both know it's terrifying you, so naturally you ran back to something that makes you feel safe,” Harry replied, letting go of Zayn’s fingers and running his hands through Zayn's hair instead. Zayn smelled like Jack Daniels and Gucci by Gucci, and his hair was soft and flat under Harry's fingertips. Harry wondered if Zayn had had any intentions of getting ready for the great event tonight, or if he was going to get fucked and throw his own pity party. “Why do you keep doing things that only make you miserable?”

Zayn took almost a full minute to answer. “I want you to get this straight – I didn't even think about proposing – ”

“That's because you _don't think_ – ”

“Because the whole time I was with you I didn't think about Perrie, not once. Only to get annoyed that she was trying to find me,” Zayn finished, looking vulnerable, crushed by his own admission. “And like – that shouldn't be how I feel, right? I've been with her almost ten years, shouldn't I feel more for her than this? I've been trying – I need to make myself love her the right way.”

Harry made a small confused noise. “Are you even listening to yourself? Would you want to be with yourself, hearing this bullshit?”

“Then why do you, Harry?” Zayn retorted. “Why do you keep coming back for more? Do you think you deserve this? Is this some sort of masochistic punishment for the both of us?”

“For once we are only going to talk about you, and how much you’ve hurt me, and how I’m not taking it anymore,” Harry answered coolly. “That's the point we're at, Zayn. I'm tired of you always deflecting and trying to make it about me, as if you aren't a willing participant in all of this.”

“But that's not fair – ”

“None of this is fair!” Harry exclaimed. “Zayn, I didn't ask for this. When I went home with you that first night, after the karaoke bar, I thought you were single. Louis had told me to be careful, but I thought it was because of that whole bad boy aura you were putting out, not because you were so fucking damaged.”

Zayn jolted and leveraged Harry with a cool stare. “Don't you dare call me damaged.”

“It's hardly an insult,” Harry retorted. “Just a statement of fact that this point. And you don't get to go behind my back and make an ass of yourself and then dictate how I'm allowed to see you. _That's_ not fair.”

Zayn seemed to deflate a little, leaning against the bed frame and taking one long, steadying breath. “Why did you come here today, Harry?”

“To give you an out, Zayn,” Harry whispered. “You don't need to do this. Just – call the engagement off. We both know you'd be saving yourself so much in the long run.”

“I can't,” Zayn answered, his voice equally soft. “It would crush her.”

Harry shook his head slowly. “It's nice that you're pretending as though her feelings are what's stopping you, but let's be honest with each other.” Harry took Zayn's hand in his and kissed the tip of Zayn's index finger. “Zayn, please. I already know it – just tell me the real reason you don't want to cancel the engagement.”

Zayn gulped, the nerve in his jaw twitching. Harry wondered if he had gone too far, if Zayn would throw him out of the room, or maybe even hit him – either seemed highly probable at that moment. But instead, Zayn just scrubbed at his eyes with his free hand, and growled out, “I can't have her leave.”

“How come?” Harry goaded.

Zayn shrugged. “Just can't. I can do whatever I want to her, and she'll always be there. She puts up with my shit, even, she makes it easy.”

“And I don't?”

Zayn smirked at Harry, using their joined hands to brush a strand of hair out of Harry's face. “Nothing about you is easy.”

Harry couldn't help himself – he used this moment to gaze into Zayn's eyes. He could get lost in them, Harry had decided, months ago, when he would come into Zayn's Office Hours and ramble about how so many great English writers like Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Milton “borrowed” ideas from forgotten Italian writers, or the importance of state consolidation in the development of colonialism, or just how much Harry liked being in Italy for that one year in high school because that's where he had learned all this stuff, and Zayn would just sit around and kind of look at Harry in awe, and Harry was so addicted to it, addicted to those brief moments where he would look up and his eyes would lock with Zayn's and even then, Harry knew he was in trouble. Harry had never really been in love before, but he had always had a thing for older men and women – a brief fling with his teacher in Italy, a British woman named Caroline Flack who had long, gorgeous legs, and then a married woman when he spent the summer after graduation in the UK, and that week long, intense thing with Nick, that still had really unfortunate repercussions. Harry had never loved any of them, just enjoyed their company, and they were always really good to him, which was how Harry knew that this thing with Zayn was trouble. Zayn had only ever been nice to Harry in the beginning, before they fucked, and even then there was an edge to it, a really intense sexual tension that made Harry want to do _anything_ to get Zayn's attention. And Harry never really thought of himself as being like that – intense. Sure, Harry could be really focused when he decided that he liked someone, but never like _this_. Harry felt guilty about it, but couldn't ever quite help himself. He wanted all of Zayn, the good moments like this, where he could just look into Zayn's eyes and forget, and the bad, which seemed to be all the other moments, the messy, complicated, and uncomfortable everything else.

So Harry gave himself that one moment – and forgot.

 

Harry had never wanted this thing with Zayn to devolve into a cliché. Harry knew that the current arrangement made it seem as though he didn't have any control – the way Liam and Niall looked at him, eyes clouded with concern, every time he brought up his not quite relationship with Zayn told him enough about how people pitied him for letting himself get strung along by an engaged man – but Harry was also aware that the way it looked wasn't the way it _was_. Sure, Harry was a few years younger, and this whole mess with Zayn began when Harry was his student, but Harry had always had the power here. All of this continued because Harry let it. Harry was the one who never told administration that his GSI fucked him, and that his prowess might have boosted his A to an A+ in the course. Harry was the one who never sent the pictures he had secretly collected of Zayn to Perrie, even though he really wanted to. Harry was the one who always allowed Zayn to blindly make his way back, every single fucking time. Harry had been patient, and he could continue to be patient, because he actually did love Zayn, perhaps in a bit of an unhealthy way, even if Zayn was dumb enough to believe that ignoring Harry would make him go away.

But Zayn really had thrown a curveball with this whole engagement thing. Harry wasn't dumb enough to believe that it would change the way Zayn treated Perrie, wasn't dumb enough to believe that Zayn wouldn't ever talk to him again if he actually did marry Perrie but – it was a bit upsetting, was all.

Harry had come here to talk, but he suddenly realized that there wasn't any point.

“I think I'm going to go,” Harry said abruptly, attempting to stand up. Zayn pulled him back, face screwed up in confusion.

“What? No – why?”

“Twenty minutes ago, you asked me why I was even here.”

Zayn shrugged. “I know, but – c'mon, Harry – ”

“No,” Harry answered firmly. “I'm so _stupid_. I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't have listened to Louis.”

“What are you even talking about – ?”

“Listen,” Harry said, grabbing Zayn's face. “I was going to come here and try to talk you out of this engagement, but I just realized that would be a tremendous waste of breath. So, I'm just going to go, all right? You're a grown man, you can make your own mistakes.”

“C'mon, Harry, don't be like this – ”

“Like what?” Harry asked, and he was just so fucking tired. “You're confusing the hell out of me, I just want to go home and go to sleep, all right?”

“Can't we just – one last time – ”

“Seriously?” Harry said, freezing to glare at Zayn. “What the fuck, Zayn.”

“Why are you getting so upset?”

Harry made a small, choked noise. If he didn't leave immediately, he knew he was going to cry. His fear of this thing becoming a cliché was materializing. He was so frustrated, so tired, so helplessly in love with someone who was so ridiculously stupid. It was all just too much, fucking overwhelming and Harry just needed to leave and cry it out in the privacy of his own home – or in his own car, more like.

So Harry left, closing the door softly behind him, and Zayn didn't call out after him again.

 

Harry was so deep in thought that he hardly noticed that the party had started without him. Harry meandered into the kitchen, memories of himself and Zayn in this same space nothing more than painful what-ifs that he couldn't allow himself to pursue. Harry was about to do something, maybe pour himself some water so he wouldn't get too dehydrated during his impending mental breakdown in the car, when a string of girls filed into the kitchen, all giggling and whispering conspiratorially. It was only when Perrie waltzed in, the last one into the room, wearing a sleek white dress, her hair done up in a striking bun, tittering prettily, “Just let me breathe for a moment, please everyone?” that Harry truly realized that he wasn't alone. Harry looked up, and his eyes locked with Perrie's. For a moment her face was carefully blank, but then a slew of emotions ran past her countenance – confusion, hurt, a brief second of resignation, and then pure, white anger.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Perrie hissed, her voice nothing more than a tightly controlled whisper. “Come here to fuck up my engagement?”

“Perrie – ” Harry started but Perrie stomped her foot, holding up one finger to point at Harry.

“No,” she growled. “Who told you where we would be today? Did _Zayn_ invite you?” The way she spat out Zayn's name sounded like a curse. “I'm not fucking stupid, where the fuck is he?”

One of the other girls swayed uncomfortably. “Should I go get him?”

“It's bad luck to see the groom – ” one of the other girls started and Perrie quieted her with a look.

“Number one, thanks for outing that little secret, thanks, Jesy,” Perrie spat. “It's also bad luck for the groom to bring his side piece to the surprise ceremony, isn't it? Now back to the main point – go get him before I start in on what you two did when we went to your birthday party two years ago, I know all about it, I swear to fucking God. Go get him _now_.”

The girl named Jesy blanched and ran up the stairs. Harry watched it all almost distantly before turning to Perrie, trying to school his expression into the perfect look of confusion. “I honestly have no idea what you're talking about, Perrie.”

Perrie laughed, sneering at Harry. “Do you think I'm fucking stupid?” Harry bit down his immediate knee-jerk reaction to respond with every negative thing he could come up with in this moment. “I have a fucking law degree, I work long hours and the last thing I want to do is come home and yell at my fiance about who he has been fucking all day. I don't care what or who he does, as long as he loves me with all of his heart, which he fucking does, so don't delude yourself into thinking you're nothing but a hole to stick it in while I'm away.”

Harry barked out a laugh. “You seriously want to do this now? The 'who does Zayn love most' contest while you're trying to ambush him into a wedding at his best friend's house?”

Perrie glared at Harry. “I would think that my standing here with a ring on my finger makes it obvious who wins that contest.”

Harry shook his head, crossing his arms across his chest. “And the fact that Zayn has fucked half of your bridesmaids makes it obvious that it isn't a contest. Zayn loves himself the most, sitting on my dick second, if the noises he made a few days ago were any indication, and then maybe the thought of you third.”

A vein in Perrie's jaw twitched, and she opened her mouth to retort when Jesy came stumbling down the stairs, breathing heavily, a confused Zayn in tow. Zayn's eyes danced between Harry and Perrie, before he stopped mid-step, obviously recognizing the reality of the situation.

“Perrie – ” Zayn started.

“Don't even! The fuck, Zayn! Why is he here?”

Zayn shrugged, holding his hands up in front of him defensively. “I didn't invite him – he just showed up! Don't you think we should be doing this somewhere more private?”

“Where, like our bed?” Perrie retorted. “You fucking piece of shit, on our wedding day – ”

“What are you even talking about?” Zayn asked, confusion and then pure terror dancing across his face in quick succession. “Perrie, please – ”

“Did you guys fuck this morning?” Perrie asked, walking over to Harry and shoving him in the shoulder. “One last time for the road, yeah?”

“One, we fuck damn near every day, as you must know, since he spent half a week at my apartment not long ago, and he wouldn't have known it was the last time if we had fucked this morning, huh, since he was under the impression that today was just a normal day of cheating on the fiance, and two, he actually didn't invite me here – one of your friends gave me the date and location, so maybe you might need to start wondering who else feels invested in breaking this cozy thing up.”

There was a beat of silence after Harry's declaration – Harry noticed distantly that their crowd had swelled, as people inside heard the raised voices and came to investigate – but after that, all hell went loose.

Perrie screamed, “Fuck you!” and punched Harry in the jaw. It didn't hurt a whole hell of a lot, but it caught Harry off guard, so he stumbled back a bit and grabbed at his face, whispering a small prayer that no blood came away on his hands. Zayn was at his side in a moment, and Perrie was still screaming, “I can't believe you Zayn, I cannot believe you would do this to me!” Zayn pulled at Harry's shoulder and didn't even seem to hear Perrie as he dragged a stumbling, dazed Harry out of the front door.

The minute Zayn did so, he pushed Harry against the wall, his eyes flaming with his anger. “Are you honestly trying to ruin my life?”

“Your girl should work on her swing,” Harry retorted, touching his face delicately. “Also, is it 'let's all pick on Harry' day? Shouldn't you two be yelling at each other?”

Zayn held up one finger to Harry before walking into the middle of the street, where he let out a very loud growl of a scream. He slowly stalked back to the front door, still breathing loudly, before walking back awkwardly toward the street and sitting on the curb.

“You're getting dirt on your pants,” Harry pointed out.

“Shut the fuck up, Harry! You just ruined everything, shut the fuck up!”

Harry shrugged. “You should've known that you guys weren't actually getting married. You can't have Louis tell me to come down here to, and I quote, 'make a scene,' and then expect a happily ever after in your flying car from the senior carnival.”

Zayn's head shot up and he glared at Harry. “So Louis really did tell you that we'd be here,” he stated distantly.

“I told you that just now, while we were upstairs, Zayn. You might want to start thinking about the reason why all of your friends are so against this idea,” Harry said, plopping down next to Zayn against the curb. Harry grabbed Zayn's hand, entwining their fingers and then bringing their joined hands to brush at Zayn's face. “He told me that he suspected that Perrie would try to have the ceremony here. But that's all neither here nor there right now – are you going to be all right?”

“No,” Zayn retorted, but he still moved into Harry's touch nonetheless.

“Come back to my apartment?” Harry suggested quietly. “I'm parked around the corner. We could just – drive, you know?”

Zayn shook his head, but Harry wasn't sure it was at what Harry had just suggested. “I just wanted a happy ending, you know?” Zayn said, kicking at a clod of dirt beside his foot. “I just thought – maybe if I willed it enough, it would happen. Right? Because when you really want something, the universe will find a way to give it to you.”

“You can't look to other people to bring you happiness,” Harry replied gently. “How did you ever expect to be happy with her anyway? You were lying to her all the time, and she lied, too, by pretending she didn't notice. That's not healthy, Zayn.”

Zayn nodded but Harry knew that Zayn wasn't really listening. He never was when it really mattered.

“I can't be your happy ending,” Harry started again awkwardly, rubbing his hand over Zayn's. “I really can't promise anything like that, but maybe we can be _something_ together.”

“What do you even see in me, fucking hell,” Zayn muttered, untangling his fingers from Harry's and scrubbing his hands over his face.

“I love you for some stupid, frustrating reason. Just accept it, ok?”

“You're going to get bored of me,” Zayn retorted. “The minute I agree to go with you, and fully give into this dumbass thing – you'll leave. That's what happened with Justin.”

“I mean, it's possible,” Harry agreed. “But you'd have to take that risk, and you have to remember – I'm not fucking Justin. Your thing with Perrie had no real risk – you knew she would always take you back, you never had to fight for it. You'd always have to fight for me.”

“And is that healthy?” Zayn countered. “Constantly wondering what we are, what this is? Hating you approximately 97% of the time?”

Harry shrugged, scuffing his loafers against the dirt. “Just – come back with me? These are all things we can try to talk out, but only if you give me a chance, yeah? Actually hear me out properly. Or I mean you can stay here, they'll probably be bringing out the pitchforks soon, though. Like I said – I really can't promise you shit. But I do love you, and I know you love me. And I know we're intense, and probably a bit fucked up. I mean – fuck, I honestly came down here and got hit for you, and I'm so turned on that I don't even know why we're talking right now. So, I've showed you – I can fight for you, for whatever this is. I was going to let you walk away – but it would've hurt so bad, Zayn, I don't think you understand how painful it is to be without you, now that I know what it's like to have you, and that was only a piece of you, really. So maybe we can try to like, define this thing we've got – together? Until I get bored with you, of course.”

Harry got to his feet and turned to Zayn, thrusting out his hand for Zayn to grasp, to pull Zayn to his feet so they could run away together. Harry was expecting Zayn to tell him to go fuck himself, and Harry braced himself for the blow, built himself up for the rejection, for walking back to his car alone where he would cry for something like the next five years.

Harry completely wasn't expecting for Zayn to take his hand, and walk with him, hands entwined, back to the car. They would fool around a bit, desperate and grasping, establishing the roots of a new codependency, and drive for hours, a lazy Saturday that felt like forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to Katy Perry's Dark Horse A LOT while writing this. Also, sup, here's a [visual aid](http://25.media.tumblr.com/c34c08c3ba01592d783a94b85c0d152b/tumblr_ms4lvoJ1oi1ra47c7o2_500.gif) for this chapter. All we've got left is an Epilogue.


	6. An Epilogue of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was another one of those deja vu moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to Frida again for beta reading this. You are amazing, this fic would've been 500% tamer without you pushing me to write the most fucked up things.
> 
> And thanks to all of you - it's been so fun writing for you guys every week, even when you are all yelling at me.
> 
> I tried to write a short epilogue, but it's really normal chapter length, because there were just so many ideas I had to get out. I hope you don't mind.

Zayn and Harry got back to Harry's apartment at something like one the next morning. Liam was awake watching Adventure Time on his laptop when they came in, and Zayn remembered with a jolt that yeah, the semester had started again and of course Liam would be here – it was his apartment, too, after all.

“All of my stuff is at Perrie's,” Zayn mumbled, leaning against the living room wall. “Shit, we didn't think this through.”

“We'll go get your stuff later,” Harry replied, gripping Zayn's shoulder and guiding him into Harry's bedroom. “For now – just sleep, yeah? I'll handle everything else.”

Zayn nodded distantly and stripped before crawling into bed. He was fast asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. Harry sighed, running his hands through his own hair before walking back into the living room where Liam had shut off his laptop and was apparently waiting for Harry to come back out. Harry sat down next to Liam and braced himself for the upcoming lecture.

“So, Zayn's in our apartment,” Liam started cautiously.

“Indeed, he is,” Harry confirmed.

“And you haven't been here in like two days. I thought you were with Taylor, actually. In fact, I thought that Zayn hadn't called you in weeks.”

Harry nodded slowly. “All of these things are true.”

Liam coughed. “Are you going to tell me what happened then? Because – I also think that Zayn is moving in here, and we didn't exactly consult on that.”

Harry glared at Liam. “Do we need a consultation? Because he _is_ going to stay here.”

Liam held his hands up in front of him. “I mean – I don't care. I'm only here to sleep and study when the library is closed – you know that. And I love you, Harry, but you've been a moody shit ever since the semester started, and I know it's because of him. He's poisoning you.”

Harry shook his head again. “I was only like that because he was being stupid. He had proposed to his girlfriend, but they're done now.” Liam looked extremely skeptical. Harry sighed, “It's been such a long fucking day, Liam, please. I – I went to Louis' house to talk to Zayn, and Perrie showed up, too. She fucking unloaded on both of us – she knew. She knew we were together, and Zayn could've kicked me out to sort things out with her, but he didn't. He left with me.”

Liam was surprised into silence for a few moments, but then he slammed his mouth shut and hummed. “Please don't be mad at me, Harry, but – ”

“How do I know that he isn't going back to her?” Harry supplied. “I don't _know_ anything. But, I've got a pretty good read on her. She's embarrassed – he's never really embarrassed her like that before. He'll always go back to her so long as she'll let him, but this time, she's not going to.”

Liam shook his head slowly. “Harry, I just don't understand. You've got so many amazing people who want you – Nick has been chasing you for months, and he's great. How can you want to be with someone like Zayn?”

Harry groaned, leaning back against the couch and scrubbing his hands over his eyes. “Liam, I can't explain to you – there aren't words for what I feel for him.” Harry took a deep breath, thinking about all of the pain he had been quietly shouldering over the past few weeks, patiently waiting for Zayn to wake up and realize how badly he had fucked up, and how it looked like it was going to be over now. All of that fighting, all of his awful behavior – it was all justified, he had got what he wanted. “I really do love him, I know you guys think he's roped me into some like, awful relationship or something. But what you don't understand is, it's kind of the other way around, isn't it? Or maybe an even playing field, I don't know.” Harry paused, licking his lips and staring off. “I know people say that relationships are supposed to make you want to be a better person, but with him, I'm really fucking comfortable the way I am.” Harry patted Liam's knee, and ambled off to bed, pulling the covers back and curling his body around Zayn's. Right as he was drifting off, he punched out a quick text message to Louis – “Can you help me get Zayn's stuff from Perrie's house?”

 

They had to wait something like a week before they were able to find a convenient time to pick up Zayn's things from the apartment. Louis and Eleanor headed out first, serving as something like a buffer, and then Harry and Zayn followed behind. Perrie had already packed Zayn's things into boxes – Zayn was just glad that she hadn't dumped them all out on the street, or set his shoes on fire. Louis and Eleanor showed up about an hour or so before Zayn and Harry, and they had already gotten a good deal of Zayn's stuff into Louis' Honda Civic by the time Harry and Zayn pulled up and double parked in front of the apartment building.

“You should probably stay in the car,” Zayn said when he saw Harry unbuckling his seat belt.

“Are you serious,” Harry argued. “We need as many hands as possible so we can get the fuck out of here.”

“Think of how she's gonna flip if she sees that I brought you,” Zayn countered. “It's one thing for my enabling ass best friend to be here, and another thing on top of that for me to be here, but she's probably deluded herself into thinking I'm not staying with you.”

Harry opened his door and got out, leveraging Zayn with a cool stare. “I don't give a fuck about how she feels,” Harry said flippantly and he ran up the stairs to Perrie's apartment.

Perrie was standing in the kitchen, supervising Louis and Eleanor with a false calmness – a calmness that was ruined the moment she saw Harry cross the threshold into the apartment.

“No,” Perrie said, holding her hand up and then pointing outside of the apartment. “No, get the fuck out.”

“I'm only here to help Zayn move his shit – ” Harry said, holding his hands up in front of him defensively.

“Bullshit, you are. You came to rub it in, and I don't care if he's still fucking your five dollar hipster ass – ”

“What does that even mean?”

“Fuck you, that's what it means. Does your mom know you're using your Berkeley education to fuck your way to an A?”

“Does _your_ mom know that your fiance left you for a teenage boy in one of his classes?”

Zayn sighed and grabbed Harry, pushing him back into the hallway. “Just, go sit in the car, okay, Harry?”

“Yes, go sit in the car, Harry,” Perrie mocked, tears bubbling over and ruining her attempt at looking calm and collected. “Go fucking – I – oh my God.” Perrie turned and stalked out of the room, locking herself in the bathroom. Zayn leaned his head against the door frame and turned to glare at Harry, who was still standing awkwardly in the hallway.

“I told you it would be a bad idea for you to come up,” Zayn muttered.

“Yeah, well, I don't see you running after her to console her, so you can stop pretending like you care about how she feels,” Harry said as he shouldered his way back into the apartment. “Now let's just get your shit so we can leave.”

 

On the drive back to Harry's, Zayn's phone started blaring. Harry gave Zayn a vaguely curious look when Zayn fished the phone out of his pocket, answering it with a curious, “Mommy?”

Zayn's mother seemed to be furiously typing away on her computer when she answered, “Zayn, what's all of this about on Facebook?”

“Uh,” Zayn answered, cutting his eyes to Harry, who was torn between watching the road and watching Zayn. “I haven't been on Facebook in a month. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You and Perrie!” his mother exclaimed. “Oh, Zayn, did you two really break up?”

“Um, kind of, well, yeah. Less of a break up than an explosion, I'd say.”

“And have you really gotten with, and I quote, 'some two faced, fake ass whore of a nineteen year old'?”

Zayn barked out a laugh. “I wouldn't use those words to describe Harry,” he muttered, but his mother caught his answer anyway.

“Harry? As in a boy, Harry?”

Zayn nodded before remembering that his mom couldn't see him. “Uh, yes. A boy. He's right here, if you want to talk to him.”

His mother sighed. “No, not right now, Zayn. I just – I had to see if it was all true. And I wanted to see if you were all right.”

“I'm fine,” Zayn mumbled. “I've just come from picking my stuff up from the apartment. I'm assuming that Perrie posted that after we left.”

“You went to get your things with the boy you left her for?” his mother clarified. “ _Oh_ , Zayn.”

“I told Harry to wait in the car,” Zayn replied defensively. “But I can't make him do anything, now, can I?”

“You're going to need to come home, soon, love, I need to talk to you. Can you book a flight? Daddy and I can send you money, if you need it.”

Zayn sighed, frowning at Harry when Harry looked at him with soft, concerned eyes. “I'll see what I can do, Mommy.”

 

Harry threw a giant hissy fit when Zayn said that he'd booked a plane ticket for himself to go back home and wouldn't be bringing Harry along. Harry would freely admit that it wasn't his proudest moment, but fuck, he was _upset_.

“I refuse to be your dirty fucking secret, Zayn!” he had screamed while Liam sat in the living room and watched awkwardly. It was starting to become a thing – Harry and Zayn fighting while Liam watched and pretended as though he wasn't judging them. Harry would've felt bad for Liam if he wasn't already expending so much energy being upset with Zayn.

“You're hardly a dirty secret at this point, Harry. I don't know if you remember, but I left my fiancee for you, and fucking everyone knows!” Zayn retorted, walking into the kitchen and slamming a plate down on the counter.

“Yeah, and you would've stayed with her if she hadn't seen me leaving, so don't even bother with this savior complex bullshit,” Harry answered, following Zayn into the kitchen. “And stop banging shit, none of this is yours!”

“I'm gonna go over to Niall's,” Liam announced loudly. Harry nodded and threw an apologetic look Liam's way before turning back to Zayn.

“How come I can't come and meet your parents?”

“I haven't even met your parents, and they literally only live in Walnut Creek! I just – give me some fucking time to process all of this, all right? We haven't spent a day apart since I've moved in!”

“Because I don't trust you to be by yourself, you dumbass!” Harry confessed.

Zayn paused, lying his face against one of the upper cabinets. “What was all that then, about trusting each other?”

“I've never said I trusted you,” Harry murmured. “Saying I trust you to hit me and not hurt me – that's one thing. But, not this.”

Zayn nodded. “I've never given you reason to trust me, not really.”

Harry sighed and walked back over to the kitchen table, gesturing for Zayn to follow. Harry took Zayn's hands in his and stared into Zayn's eyes. “Can we be honest with each other?”

“Are you going to be?” Zayn countered. “You lie to me a lot, Harry.”

“I do,” Harry admitted. “But let's just – we haven't talked about the important things.” Harry ran his thumb over Zayn's and coughed awkwardly. “I think we should have an open relationship.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Are you capable of thinking about things before responding impulsively?” Harry groaned. “Just – think about it? This is more for you than for me. I'm being fucking giving, right now.”

“No, you just said you don't trust me, and then you want us to be in an open relationship? Open relationships are based on trust, so, no, fuck you, if you're bored with me already, then just kick me out.”

“Zayn.”

Zayn ran his foot over Harry's. “This is your way of saying that you think I'm just a cheater, that I'm not capable of being faithful, of changing.”

“No, that's _not_ what I'm saying, quit putting words in my mouth. This is my way of saying that I am not expecting you to be monogamous. Not everyone in the world is. And that's fine. I just expect you to always love me in that special way we've got.”

Zayn rolled his eyes, but he didn't say 'no.' He wasn't going to. It did sound like a disaster waiting to happen, especially if Harry didn't even trust him to leave the house without falling and slipping into someone else, but if it would make Harry _shut up_ , he wasn't going to fight much more. “What about you, though?”

“What about me?” Harry asked, vaguely bewildered.

“I don't want anyone to touch you,” Zayn said, and even he was surprised at how rough and possessive his voice came out. “You're _mine_.”

“I think you're missing the point of it being an open relationship,” Harry replied gently. “I want to be able to date people, too.”

“No.”

“Zayn, you're being unfair.”

“Get used to it,” Zayn said, getting up and walking to the front door. He needed a smoke, badly. “And you're still not going with me to LA.”

Harry reached over and chucked something in Zayn's direction – Zayn narrowly missed getting hit in the head with the television remote as he ducked out the door.

 

Zayn went off to LA, and Harry pretended as though he wasn't a massive fucking mess without him around. Harry apologized for throwing a remote at Zayn, and Zayn shrugged and said it was okay even though it clearly wasn't, and Harry pretended as though it was all right that he had a shit arm and _missed_ when all he had wanted to do in that moment was fuck up Zayn's face. Harry dropped Zayn off at the airport and cried the entire way back home before going onto Facebook and stalking Zayn's ex – Justin.

Harry wasn't entirely sure why he was doing half the things he did these days. Liam was constantly giving Harry these worried looks when he was around – not that Liam was around much, anymore. And Harry hadn't seen Niall in ages, either. Harry really had been spending damn near every moment with Zayn – they would go to campus at the same time, and Harry would sit around in Zayn's office, and then they would get lunch together, sometimes with Louis, too. But Harry hadn't been lying when he said he didn't trust Zayn – he really didn't. He had to make sure he didn't become the new Perrie. He had to make sure Zayn was really only with him, fuck the open relationship idea he had thrown out.

Which was how he ended up on Justin's Facebook page. Harry remembered Louis mentioning that Perrie had invited him to the engagement party, but Harry couldn't remember seeing this particular face in the crowd. Justin had an almost soft beauty to him, even though his jaw was sharp, light brown hair tucked underneath a snapback in his profile picture, arms wrapped around a pretty brunette girl and someone that Harry could only assume was their daughter, a toddler with huge eyes and thick, dark hair.

Harry sent Justin a Friend Request and waited.

 

Zayn's younger sister, Waliyha, picked him up from the airport. It always kind of shocked Zayn a little to see how much she'd grown since the last time he'd visited, no longer the awkward little girl he remembered from his childhood, but a lithe beauty – effortlessly cool, striking features, nothing but legs, gorgeous face, and thick, dark hair. She still lived at home with their parents, but more so because she wanted to than because she needed to – she was one of those LA girls who said she was a model and actually meant it. She had her own car, a lower model Mercedes, carried a monogrammed Louis Vuitton, and didn't date because “She didn't need a guy to take her out – I can buy my own dinner, Zayn, God.” She was just so mature – it was only when Zayn realized that Waliyha was actually only a year older than Harry that Zayn had to shut down this whole line of thought.

Waliyha drove them back to the family home in Calabasas, dropping Zayn off before heading out again to do something, Zayn wasn't entirely sure what. The whole car ride over, they had caught up, but not really – they never talked about the real reason why Zayn was there. Zayn figured that it probably made Waliyha feel a bit uncomfortable. Waliyha had always loved Perrie – hell, his whole family did. His mother had been planning their marriage since Zayn met Perrie sophomore year in college, and his whole family had always ignored some of the signs that their relationship was a bit shit – Zayn's drawn out thing with Justin wasn't something they knew a whole lot about, but Rebecca had been one of Doniya's friends, which was how Zayn and Rebecca first met, and even though their relationship had officially ended during Zayn's freshman year of college, it wasn't like they stopped sleeping together, even when Zayn was dating Perrie and doing whatever it was he was doing with Justin. In fact, there had been a mini crisis while they were planning Doniya's wedding a few years ago, when Doniya paired Zayn and Rebecca because she figured it would be funny, and Perrie threw a huge fit – mostly everyone figured it was because she knew Zayn and Rebecca were exes and she didn't want anything to happen, had no idea that it was because Perrie had _just_ found compromising and clearly recent pictures of Rebecca on Zayn's phone. Doniya had kind of figured it all out, though. But how do you talk about something like that? It was enough for Zayn to know he was kind of a mess, that getting off behind his girlfriend's back was just something that really did it for him, but it was an entirely other thing for his family to know about it.

And yet – now they all did, since apparently Perrie had put all of their business out for mass consumption on Facebook.

Zayn went into the house and set everything down in his old room before meandering through, looking for the rest of his family. Safaa was off at school still and it seemed like both of his parents were at one of their restaurants. Resigned to spending the next few hours by himself, Zayn decided to take a nap.

 

Dinner that night was a shit show. Normally one of his parents would be tending one of the restaurants during the dinner service, but instead both of them were home, Zayn's mother supervising Safaa as she cooked, and Zayn's father watching a Clippers game in the living room, cursing at Blake Griffin as he missed his free throws. Waliyha had finally come home from wherever the fuck she had gone to, but now she was on the phone on the deck, discussing some important model thing. Zayn kind of hovered, unsure of where he should go, when his mother called them all into the dining room to eat.

Zayn's parents had a fairly normal conversation about the restaurants that Zayn tuned out, then Safaa talked a bit about school and some important paper she was writing and Waliyha chimed in with news of a shoot she had just booked. Considering they had danced around the subject for about half an hour, Zayn was not entirely surprised the conversation turned to him.

“So, Zayn,” his mother started, clearing away everyone's plates to bring out desert. “How have you been doing, love?”

“Fine,” Zayn answered shortly. “Good. Somewhere on the spectrum between 'fine' and 'good.'”

Zayn's mother hummed but Waliyha, damn her, just snorted and muttered, “You'd think you'd be doing better than just 'fine,' considering how delectable that Harry of yours is. I've seen his Facebook, that boy is _fine_ all on his own.”

“Oh God,” Zayn mumbled, putting his face in his hands as Safaa and Waliyha devolved into giggles.

“Yeah, Zayn,” Safaa choked out in between snickers. “Wanna know who's giving it to you so good you finally left Perrie.”

“Safaa, that is totally inappropriate – ” their mother started, but Waliyha quickly jumped back in.

“So were you always into men, or was Harry just that irresistible?”

This time, it was Zayn's father's turn to snort. “Let's not forget Justin, girls.”

Zayn wanted to die. “ _What_?” Zayn asked weakly.

“You ran off with that boy every chance you got, and then lost your goddamn mind the minute he got engaged,” Zayn's father huffed. “I'm your dad, Zayn, I notice things. At least you didn't let yourself get to the stage that idiot inevitably will, divorced by 30.”

“Are we not going to talk about the elephant in the room?” Zayn's mother asked, sighing and setting a pie on the table. “I don't care how good looking this Harry is – Zayn, how could you do that to Perrie?”

Zayn's father mumbled, “They're better off apart.”

“Yaser – ”

“No, Tricia,” his father interrupted, sighing. “If we're going to have this incredibly awkward conversation with everyone, let's all be honest, here. Everyone knows that Zayn has not been good to that poor girl – ”

“ _What_?” Zayn repeated.

“ – and nobody deserves that. I know you liked her, Tricia, but Zayn and Perrie just didn't work. They wouldn't have worked. We all liked her, and liked the idea of what they could've been, but that doesn't mean they would've ended up living happily ever after. That's all there is to it. If he's happy with his Harry, that's plenty for me.”

Zayn's mother sighed. “I need a drink.”

“Me too,” Zayn chimed in weakly.

“More like a fuck,” Waliyha smirked behind her pie. Zayn threw his napkin at her.

 

Getting a hold of Justin wasn't really that hard. Harry had gone to bed, woke up, and saw that his Friend Request had been approved. Justin had even sent him a message – “You're Zayn's Harry? Good on you, bro.”

Harry wasn't too sure why he was so interested in Justin, but he _was_ for some stupid reason. Had been ever since Zayn had told Harry about him, and Harry had promptly gone through Louis' list of friends on Facebook (Harry correctly assumed that Zayn probably wasn't Facebook friends with Justin anymore), looking for a Justin who had graduated from UCLA around the same time as Zayn. He wasn't that hard to find, and Harry had been surprised to see that Justin lived in San Francisco – for some reason Harry had just assumed that Justin was still in Southern California. Harry had tried to keep tabs on him, but it was hard when they weren't friends and had no pretense to become friends.

But now Harry had a reason. So he shot off a response to Justin, asking if they could meet up.

 

Harry and Zayn eventually got their own apartment. It was for everyone's sanity – Liam wasn't in much, but he had a tendency of interrupting Harry and Zayn whenever they were in the middle of an argument that would ultimately end up with the two of them lying fucked out and sated in the living room, or in the kitchen, or the bathroom, or even once, in the hallway outside their apartment.

So Zayn and Harry got their own place, and settled into a routine – Zayn grading things while Harry made dinner, Harry secretly talking to Justin and pestering Zayn to take things to the next level of their relationship, whatever the fuck that meant, and then them screaming until one of them got the other to shut up. They were in the middle of that routine – Zayn sitting at the kitchen table, setting paper napkins underneath their cutlery while Harry tended over some soup he had been pestering Zayn about trying all fucking day, when Zayn cleared his throat.

“I ran into Perrie today,” Zayn announced, making note of the way Harry's hand stilled as he stirred the pot over the stove.

“Oh?” Harry asked, recovering quickly.

“You know that James Blunt song where he says he lived a whole lifetime in a moment when he locked eyes with his ex?” Zayn replied, tearing nervously at the napkin near his plate. “This was nothing like that.”

And it hadn't been, that was the thing. Zayn had been standing on a BART platform, fingers itching for a cigarette as he glared at the stark “No Smoking” sign, when he saw her. She looked good, face fuller and happier, little makeup on, dressed in a simple but stylishly cut green dress, and she was with some guy, the hipster type that was so ubiquitous in San Francisco. She must've felt Zayn's eyes on her, because her face snapped up and for a moment, Zayn went completely still, wondering what she would do – and all Perrie did was go blank, that careful, insecure look that she used to always have around him, and then she turned pointedly back to the guy that she was with, her face lighting up again as she snuggled into his side, and that was that.

Harry hummed and kept stirring dinner before suddenly throwing the spoon down onto the counter.

“I'm bored,” Harry whined. “This is boring – I'm bored. Aren't you bored?”

Zayn eyed Harry a little warily. He had never gotten quite used to Harry's outbursts, and these days they were coming a bit more frequently. Not that Zayn could ever really anticipate them. Zayn and Harry had been fucking each other for about two years, but had only really been dating for something approaching one, yet Harry was starting to bring up things like marriage and kids, and it all just sounded so fucking dumb that Zayn couldn't even seriously entertain Harry anymore. “No?”

“Are you asking me, or telling me?” Harry countered.

“Telling you?”

Harry groaned and lowered the heat on the pot before turning to Zayn. “I've been fucking Nick for six months.”

Zayn shifted uncomfortably. He was pretty sure that Harry was lying – Harry spent damn near all of his free time with Zayn, being a jealous little shit and scaring off people whenever Zayn tried to actually act out the open bit of their allegedly open relationship, because Zayn had caved in on that idea, of course. But he wasn't entirely sure – Harry could be telling the truth. He did do that, occasionally. He could be fucking someone when he said he was in class.

“That's fine,” Zayn mumbled. “I mean, I guess.”

“I've been fucking him because you've been boring,” Harry clarified. “Doesn't that make you upset?”

Zayn shrugged and tried to push down the anger that was slowly bubbling up inside of him. “Well, obviously, but like – I can't just tell you who to fuck – ”

“Of course you can, I do the same thing with you all the time,” Harry said dismissively. “You can do that, when you're in a fucking relationship with someone.”

“Are you trying to get a rise out of me?” Zayn asked. “Because it's working, you can fucking stop it now.”

“Yes, I'm trying to get a rise out of you, are you not fucking listening? You've been boring, I'm bored of you! Don't you remember what I said – all that time ago?”

Of course Zayn remembered, he wasn't stupid and he had a very good memory. Sitting on the curb outside of Louis' house, finally confessing, “You're going to get bored of me” and Harry saying, “I mean, it's possible.” No real resolution, just postponement. And it seemed like Harry had postponed everything to right now, right this moment.

“I'm leaving you, Zayn,” Harry said, softly. “I mean – after dinner, obviously. But I'm moving in with Nick.”

“This is your apartment, too,” Zayn answered, curling his hands into fists. It wouldn't do well to hit Harry right now, even though he really fucking wanted to, was half convinced that this was just some weird test to see how much Zayn loved Harry, was willing to fight for him. “I should – I mean, if anyone should leave, it's me.”

“Don't be stupid,” Harry whispered fondly, and he went back to making dinner. By the next day, he would be gone.

 

Zayn was pretty sure that this was some serious karmic retribution for every fucked up thing he had ever done, because he was a wreck. Zayn was still at UC Berkeley, had finished his dissertation and gotten his Ph.D. and was hired on as a Lecturer, so he dutifully got up and went to teach his class every day, and sat at Office Hours wishing that Harry would come through, that things could go back to the way they had been, because he would walk home to the apartment he had been sharing with Harry and it was just – he wanted to just go to sleep and wake up to the realization that this was all a dream, and Harry would be there on the other side of the bed and he would say something to piss Zayn off, but at least he would be there. They had gone through so much together, so much painful self-actualization that this couldn't be the way it ended. It just couldn't.

 

About a week after Harry left, Zayn took the bus up to Tilden Park, near Louis' house. Zayn hadn't told Louis that he was coming over, but thankfully Eleanor was in, and she took one look at Zayn and immediately got him situated on the couch with a cup of hot cocoa with a splash of Bailey's.

“What's wrong, love?” Eleanor asked, sitting across from Zayn in the recliner with her own cup of cocoa, hers alcohol free.

“Nothing,” Zayn lied. “How come there isn't any Bailey's in your cocoa?”

Eleanor blushed. “I'm pregnant.”

The smile that Zayn gave her was genuine. “Oh wow, El – congratulations!”

“Nobody really knows yet,” she continued. “Just Louis and – ” Eleanor finished off suddenly, her mouth going in a hard, straight line.

“And Harry?” Zayn supplied, rubbing the back of his neck. “So you know then? That – he's gone? He left, and I just – I want – I can't – ”

Eleanor hummed lowly before setting her cup down and walking over to Zayn, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him in. “Oh, Zayn,” she sighed, and she didn't even seem to mind that he got his tears all over her sweater.

 

Eleanor was pretty good at consolation, letting Zayn cry it out before suggesting that he go wash his face so they could go shopping. “Nothing quite cheers me up like a new pair of shoes,” Eleanor said, and Zayn couldn't quite disagree with that logic.

They were in Nordstrom, meandering through the women's shoes section as Eleanor oohed over the extensive selection of booties, when Zayn sighed and awkwardly grabbed Eleanor's shoulder. She turned and looked at him quizzically.

“So Harry – he's been at your house?”

Eleanor hummed affirmatively. “The day after. I think he told you he was going to Nick's? He stayed with us, instead. He'll be coming back, you know. He's just – he's so young, Zayn. He doesn't quite know what he wants, most of the time.”

Zayn shook his head. “You're selling him short. He knows exactly what he wants, and he's being sneaky and two faced by going about it in this way.”

“Both of you are sneaky and two faced,” Eleanor countered, picking up a pair of Dolce Vita's and waving them at a saleswoman, who brusquely came over, asked for Eleanor's size, and set off into the back room. “But really, Zayn, what do _you_ want?”

“I want him back home.”

“Why?”

Zayn made a small, vulnerable noise. “Because I do.”

“No, Zayn. That's a child's answer.”

Zayn grunted, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket. “Because I love him,” Zayn whispered, and Eleanor smiled at him and patted him gingerly on the arm.

“I actually care about you and Harry very much, but sometimes I really worry about you two,” Eleanor said, her breezy voice not matching the cold, scared look in her eyes. Zayn's gaze locked with hers and Zayn knew – she didn't understand. She was trying to, but how could she ever? She had one of those perfect, storybook romances, where they loved each other and it wasn't brutal, it wasn't toxic, it wasn't all-encompassing in its crushing selfishness. She couldn't understand the take take take of his and Harry's relationship, just as he couldn't understand the easy, sweet love of her and Louis'.

“After I try on this pair, let's go look at something nice for you, yeah?” Eleanor whispered, and Zayn hummed almost absently his agreement.

 

Eleanor was kind of right. It would be about a month and a half before Harry came back. It was another one of those deja vu moments, Zayn sitting on Louis and Eleanor's couch, grading papers because he couldn't bear to be in his empty apartment right now, when Louis checked his phone and announced, “Someone's actually at the door, Zayn, can you just go get that?” Zayn had opened the door, saw Harry on the front porch, and promptly slammed it shut in Harry's face.

“Fuck you all,” Zayn said, and he went upstairs to the guest bedroom and locked the door behind him.

 

It was another few hours before Zayn finished sulking. Harry waited downstairs, drinking up Eleanor's hot chocolate while Louis and Eleanor cuddled on the couch, watching an episode of Breaking Bad on Netflix. Zayn made kind of a lot of noise coming down the stairs, probably just to be an asshole, but he was so beautiful once he was finally standing on the landing. Harry noticed distantly that Zayn had cut his hair but clearly hadn't shaved for a few days, swimming in his oversized sweatpants and a thin T-shirt. His eyes were red when he looked up at Harry and Harry noted that Zayn looked thinner than he had in a while.

“Are you mad at me?” Harry whispered, so caught up in this moment that he didn't notice Louis shutting off the television and grabbing Eleanor's hand, heading off to their bedroom.

“Furious,” Zayn replied, walking over to Harry and grabbing Harry's face between his hands. Even his hands felt thinner, more brittle where they gripped Harry's jaw. “Never fucking leave again.”

“Who said I was coming back?” Harry said, and his heart broke a little at the stricken look on Zayn's face. “Zayn, babe, I'm kidding. Of course I'm back. I – I just needed some time, okay? I thought I was bored, but like, shit. Being with Nick was a whole other level of boring.”

“Shut up, fuck you, never talk about him again, either,” Zayn said, sliding his hands to the soft strands of hair at the base of Harry's head. “I want to rip him apart right now, and I figure you wouldn't appreciate that much. Don't bring him around.”

“I won't,” Harry mumbled. “Zayn, please – ”

“What?” Zayn asked distantly.

“Can't we just – ”

“Not in their kitchen.”

Harry chuckled a little. “Never stopped us before.”

Harry knew that Zayn could never argue with that logic, could never really tell Harry no even when he wanted to, and to help speed this whole thing up, Harry got on his knees, looking up at Zayn through his lashes.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked, nuzzling into Zayn's crotch.

“I hate you,” Zayn mumbled, running his hands through Harry's hair. “I fucking hate you, and I fucking love you, and – ”

“S'okay, babe,” Harry whispered. “We're good now.”

 

Later, after they cleaned spunk off the kitchen counter, they fit themselves into the bed in the guest room, and Zayn mumbled something about, “Maybe we should – I don't know. Make this something more permanent,” and it was just –

“You never have to worry about me coming in and like, trying to steal Zayn back,” Justin had said once, his lips quirking into a smirk. Because duh, of course Harry wasn't sleeping with Nick, but he had been meeting up with Justin sometimes when he told Zayn he was in class, or at one of his club meetings, and he stayed with Justin sometimes, on those nights when he didn't want to deal with Niall and Liam and Nick. Zayn wasn't the only one who could have his own secret life. “I loved Zayn, but I loved fucking with his head, more.”

Harry had smiled at that. He kind of shared the same sentiment.

“He deserves it, you know?” Justin had continued, running his hand through his hair and stretching in his seat. Harry had often tried to make himself attracted to Justin, because wouldn't that have been hilarious, but he didn't feel anything like that. A part of him resented Justin, thought he was a giant dick and Harry realized that was probably part of the reason Zayn had liked him, and another part of Harry was in complete awe of him. Justin was kind of really fucked up, and that should've terrified Harry, not intrigued him. “He really does fuck everyone over, the way he talks to people is ridiculous sometimes, you know? But the way to get him to do something is usually to trick him into it. Let him think the shit is his idea. Use his possessiveness against him, bro.”

Harry hadn't planned on taking Justin's advice, but he kind of had, hadn't he? When he had looked over at Zayn one day at dinner and realized that he needed to have all of Zayn, that he really enjoyed this domestic shit, that he wanted to keep Zayn by his side forever, someone to fight with and for, someone who made sex feel so amazing and new every fucking time, someone who drove Harry so crazy and made him forget that there was any other way to be. Harry had tried telling Zayn all of this plainly, tried to tell Zayn that Harry could see himself marrying Zayn one day, but Zayn always reacted badly to that, so Harry decided he needed to do what he normally did to get his way – lie. So that night, as Harry laid back on the pillowcase in their friend's guest bedroom, Zayn's breath evening out beside him, their fingers entwined where they rested on Zayn's stomach, Harry lost himself in his own thoughts, the same words repeating over and over, “I've finally got him.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again SO MUCH for reading. I love you all <3
> 
> If you actually like my writing for some bizarre reason, I've already started a [Zourry fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1024088), if that's your thing, and I'll be publishing a Zirry WIP soon-ish that will probably also feature some really dubious moral choices (does Jasmine write fanfiction that doesn't feature Zayn and infidelity? The answer is "no.")
> 
> Also, you can find me on [Tumblr](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/xtracalidopechk), if you want to, although I'm a huge bitch on Twitter so there's that.
> 
> Again, thanks tons! I'm so glad I finally finished this yay! It's longer than my senior thesis.


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